GIFT  OF 

&t.  raAsyL&+ 


LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND 


By  the  same  Author: 

Songs  of  Myself 
Lyrical  Poems 

Thomas  Campion  and 
the  Art  of  English 
Poetry 


LITERATURE   IN 
IRELAND 

STUDIES 
IRISH  AND   ANGLO-IRISH 


BY 


THOMAS   MACDONAGH,   M.A, 

UNIVERSITY  COLLEGE.   DUBLIN 


NEW    YORK: 

FREDERICK    A.    STOKES    COMPANY 

443     FOURTH     AVENUE 

1916 


PRINTED  BY  THE 

EDUCATIONAL  COMPANY 

OF    IRELAND    LIMITED 

AT  THE  TALBOT  PRESS 

DUBLIN 


«• 

ft 


TO 

GEORGE     SIGERSON 

PATRIOT    AND    SAGE,    BARD    OF    THE    GAEL    AND    GALL, 
TEACHER    AND    HEALER,    OLLAMH    OF    SUBTLE    LORE, 
WHOSE    WORDS    AND    WORKS    TO    IRELAND'S    PAST    RESTORE 
THE  GLORY  THAT  WAS  LOST  WITH  LEARNING'S  FALL 
IN    OUR    DARK    PASSION,    THE    IMMEMORIAL 
KIND    KNOWLEDGE    WEARS    TO    US    THE    MIEN    SHE    WORE 
TO  YOUR  YOUNG  GAZE  ;    AND,   MASTER,   LOOK  BEFORE, 
SEE    WHERE    THE    CHILDREN    WEAVE    HER    CORONAL. 

YOUR  HONOUR  IS   YOUR  COUNTRY'S  I     STILL  YOU  GIVE 
YOUR   LIFE'S    GREAT   SERVICE   UNDER   GOD   TO   HER, 
AND  SHE  REPAYS   IN  FULL,   EARLY  OR  LATE. 
SO,    THAT    SOME    WORD    OF    MINE   A    WHILE    MAY    LIVE, 
SET  WITH  YOUR  NAME  IN  HER  LOVE'S   REGISTER, 
THESE   TO    YOU    I    INSCRIBE   AND   DEDICATED 


PREFACE. 

THESE  Studies  in  Irish  and  Anglo-Irish  Literature  are 
frankly  experimental.  In  them  I  have  tried  to  clear  away 
certain  misconceptions,  to  fix  certain  standards,  to  define 
certain  terms.  I  trust  that  as  a  result  the  Irish  Mode 
will  be  better  understood  and  appreciated  than  the 
Celtic  Note  for  which  I  substitute  it. 

My  exclusion  from  the  scope  of  these  inquiries  of  the 
Hiberno-English  writers  of  the  eighteenth  century  has 
already  provoked  protests  from  my  friends.  They 
do  indeed  form  a  band  apart  in  English  Literature, 
with  the  common  characteristic  of  adventurous  and 
haughty  individualism.  But  to  me,  who  look  rather  from 
the  Gaelic  stand-point,  the  attitude  of  Swift,  Steele, 
Sheridan,  Burke,  Goldsmith  and  the  rest,  for  all  that  they 
have  in  common  and  for  all  that  they  owe  to  their  Irish 
birth  or  upbringing,  is  an  attitude  rather  of  dissent  from 
an  English  orthodoxy  than  of  consent  in  an  orthodoxy 
of  their  own  or  of  Ireland's.  IE  has  claimed,  in  con- 
versation with  me  about  this,  that  all  these  emigrants, 
down  to  Oscar  Wilde  and  Shaw,  have  that  Irish  mien  of 


Vll 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

aristocracy  that  marked  our  great  in  the  days  of  the  clan 
system — an  aristocracy  not  of  the  talents  merely,  but  of 
character,  of  self-confident  and  often  self-made  leader- 
ship. I  would  not  deny  their  claim.  I  would  not  abate 
their  praise.  But  the  two  literatures  of  my  choice  here 
have  other  claims  and  are  worthy  of  other  praise.  If 
I  have  done  a  little  wrong  to  the  emigrants  in  one  of  my 
Studies,  this  will  undo  it. 

My  subject  is  Literature  in  Ireland.  My  business 
as  regards  Gaelic  is  simple — to  show  the  value  of  the  old 
literature,  the  prospects  of  the  new.  To  this  business 
I  have  devoted  the  last  and  longest  of  these  Studies  and 
portions  of  others.  My  theses  as  regards  Anglo-Irish 
are  these  three,  restated  in  Study  V  and  dealt  with  in 
detail  in  the  rest  of  the  book:- 

That  an  Anglo-Irish  literature,  worthy  of  a  special 
designation,  could  come  only  when  English  had  become 
the  language  of  the  Irish  people,  mainly  of  Gaelic  stock, 
and  when  the  literature  was  from,  by,  of,  to  and  for  the 
Irish  people. 

That  the  ways  of  life  and  the  ways  of  thought  of  the 
Irish  people — the  manners,  customs,  traditions  and 
outlook,  religious,  social  and  moral — have  important 
differences  from  the  ways  of  life  and  of  thought  which 
have  found  expression  in  other  English  literature. 

That  the  English  language  in  Ireland  has  an  individuality 


PREFACE.  ix 

of  its  own,  and  the  rhythm  of  Irish  speech  a  distinct 
character. 

To  illustrate  my  text  I  have  put  together  at  the  end 
a  selection  of  poems  in  English,  examples  of  the  Irish 
Mode, — poems  which  show  in  their  form  the  influence 
of  Gaelic  versification,  of  Irish  music  or  of  the  Irish  way 
of  speech.  In  my  introductory  note  to  these  I  explain 
the  limitations  of  the  selection. 

I  have  throughout  used  italics  in  printing  words  and 
quotations  from  other  languages  than  English.  I  have, 
however,  used  Gaelic  type  for  quotations  from  modern 
Irish.  For  other  explanations  of  this  nature  I  refer 
readers  to  the  notes  at  the  end. 

It  is  well  to  let  it  be  known  that  some  of  the  studies 
wete  written  before  the  summer  of  1914.  The  pre- 
sent European  wars  have  altered  our  outlook  on  many 
things,  but  as  they  have  not  altered  the  truth  or  the 
probability  of  what  I  have  written  here,  I  have  not  altered 
my  words.  As  will  be  seen,  I  anticipated  turbulence  and 
change  in  the  arts.  These  wars  and  their  sequel  may 
turn  literature  definitely  into  ways  towards  which  I  looked, 
confirming  the  promise  of  our  high  destiny  here 

UNIVERSITY  COLLEGE,  DUBLIN 
January,  1916. 


CONTENTS. 

Page 
DEDICATION v 

PREFACE vii 

STUDY  L 
INTRODUCTORY  AND  GENERAL      .         .         .         .        i 

STUDY  II. 
ANGLO-IRISH  LITERATURE 21 

STUDY  III. 
LANGUAGE   AND    LITERATURE       ....      30 

STUDY  IV. 

IRISH  AND  ENGLISH     .  ....      42 

STUDY  V. 
ANGLO-IRISH  AUTHORS 57 

STUDY  VI. 
THE  IRISH  MODE 64 

STUDY  VII. 
THE  LYRIC  OF  THE  IRISH  MODE      ...      83 

STUDY  VIII. 
IRISH  LITERATURE .104 

xi 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

POEMS  OF  THE  IRISH  MODE. 

Page 

Translations  from  the  Irish : 

CEANN  DUBH  DILIS  (SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON)  .  178 
CASHEL  OF  MUNSTER  (SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON)  .  178 
HAVE  YOU  BEEN  AT  CARRICK  ?  (EDWARD  WALSH)  .  179 
THE  OUTLAW  OF  LOCH  LENE  (j.  J.  CALLANAN)  .  l8l 
PASTHEEN  FINN  (SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON)  .  .  182 

THE    COOLUN    (SIR    SAMUEL    FERGUSON)        .  .183 

PULSE    OF    MY    HEART    (EDWARD    WALSH)        .  .185 

ISN'T  IT  PLEASANT  FOR  THE  LITTLE  BIRDS  ?  .  1 86 
PEARL  OF  THE  WHITE  BREAST  (GEORGE  PETRIE)  .  1 86 
THE  COUNTY  OF  MAYO  (GEORGE  FOX)  .  .187 

THE    FAIR    HILLS    OF    IRELAND    (SIR  SAMUEL  FER- 
GUSON)   .  ...  .       189 
^LAMENTATION  OF  MAC  LIAG  FOR  KINCORA   (JAMES 

CLARENCE    MANGAN)  .  .  .  .190 

/A     FAREWELL      TO      PATRICK      SARSFIELD      (jAMES 

CLARENCE     MANGAN)  .  .  .  .192 

KATHLEEN    NY    HOULAHAN     (jAMES    CLARENCE 

MANGAN)         ......     196 

EAMONN  AN  CHNUIC 197 

DRUIMFHIONN   DONN   DILIS          .  .  .  .198 

THE  YELLOW  BITTERN 199 

THE    SONG    OF    GLADNESS     (jAMES    CLARENCE 

MANGAN) 200 

Ballads  and  Street  Songs  : 

SHULE  AROON  (ANONYMOUS)        ....  203 

THE   CROPPY   BOY    (ANONYMOUS)          .  .  .  204 

THE    STREAMS    OF    BUNCLODY     (ANONYMOUS)         .  205 

THE  GROVES  OF  BLARNEY  (R.  A.  MILLIKEN)     .  .  207 


CONTENTS.  Xiil 

Original  Poems :  Page 

AT  THE  MID  HOUR  OF  NIGHT  (THOMAS  MOORE)  .  2OQ 

THE  STARLING  LAKE  (SEUMAS  O'SULLIVAN)  .  21 0 
THE  IRISH  PEASANT  TO  HIS  MISTRESS  (THOMAS 

MOORE) 210 

A  VISION  OF  CONNAUGHT  IN  THE  THIRTEENTH 

CENTURY  (JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN)  .  211 
YOUR  FEAR  (JOSEPH  PLUNKETT)  .  .  .214 

THE  FAIRY  THORN  (SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON)  .  215 
THE  LARK  IN  THE  CLEAR  AIR  (SIR  SAMUEL 

FERGUSON) 218 

MAY  DAY 2l8 

THE    TRIAD    OF    THINGS    NOT    DECREED    (ALICE 

FURLONG)        ......  219 

NOTES 221 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 239 

INDEX '  243 


LITERATURE   IN    IRELAND 


I. 

INTRODUCTORY  AND  GENERAL. 

IN  literature  it  will  be  found  that  the  characteristic 
contribution  of  each  great  master  is  two-fold.  The 
new  message  comes  in  a  new  form,  the  new  wine  in 
a  new  vessel.  No  great  poet  has  really  put  new  wine 
into  old  bottles.  To  English  Chaucer  gave  a  fresh 
literature  and  a  fresh  mode  of  literary  expression.  One 
part  of  his  gift  was  a  narrative  poetry  never  since  surpassed. 
The  vessel  in  which  he  presented  a  quantity  of  it,  the 
couplet  to  which  later  was  given  that  high  title  of  heroic, 
was  perhaps  more  rare  and  new  than  his  other  forms. 
So  Dryden,  with  the  first  fine  vintage  of  literary  criti- 
cism, gave  that  modern  prose  of  the  living  voice,  made 
good  at  last  for  all  the  purposes  of  prose.  So  Milton, 
to  take  an  example  that  may  be  at  once  accepted,  that 
need  not  be  explained  and  proved,  with  his  epic  poetry 


2  /  .-  ':.<  :     ^LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

gave  that  epic  blank  verse  of  such  different  poise  from  the 
already  perfect  dramatic.  So  Pope,  with  the  poetry  of 
the  intellect  (to  damn  it  with  a  paradox)  gave  the  heroic 
couplet,  wrought  to  a  second  perfection — perhaps  for  that 
alone  a  second-rate  master,.  One  need  not  drag  in 
Shakespeare,  from  whose  work  you  can  prove  anything  ; 
and  one  need  not  make  a  list  of  the  masters  of  English 
or  other  literatures.  A  new  verse,  a  new  style  in  prose — 
something  that  can  be  weighed  and  measured — a  new 
manifestation  that  can  be  seen,  comes  always  with  that 
new  imponderable,  incommensurable,  elusive  something 
which  one  knows  to  be  fine  literature,  but  which  cannot 
be  tested  by  any  such  sure  standards.  I  will  say  that 
poetry  may  be  not  only  a  criticism  of  life,  as  Matthew 
Arnold  thought,  but  an  interpretation  of  life,  or,  at  its 
highest,  an  illumination  of  life.  The  ancient  Irish 
critic  of  the  Triads  had  this  for  one  of  his  marks  of  the 
poet,  imbas  forosna,  knowledge  that  illumines.  I  will 
say  this.  I  know  well  enough  what  I  mean  by  these  terms. 
But  when  I  come  to  apply  them  to  some  actual  piece  of 
literature,  more  especially  of  new  literature,  they  help  me 
little.  This  new  thing  is  unlike  all  the  fine  literature 
that  I  know.  Is  it  a  criticism  of  life  ?  Is  it  an 
interpretation  ?  Is  it  an  illumination  ?  What  really 
is  life  ?  When  so  illuminated  does  it  change  and 
become  different  from  all  that  we  know  by  experience  ? 


INTRODUCTORY    AND    GENERAL.  3 

What  right  have  we  to  limit  it  to  experience  ?  Are  we 
looking  only  for  the  experience  of  the  intellectual  thing, 
forgetting  the  intuitive  ?  Are  not  these  terms  of  criti- 
cism only  words  of  praise  and  no  standards  at  all  ?  And 
so — though  with  the  old  standard  of  beauty  we  have  set 
aside  the  old  standard  of  truth — so  back  to  the  tragic 
query,  What  is  truth  ? 

If,  in  the  course  of  these  studies,  I  have  said  that 
poetry  is  a  criticism,  or  an  interpretation,  or  an  illu- 
mination of  life,  I  use  the  terms  with  reference  to  work 
that  has  fallen  back  into  perspective — not  work  in  the 
near  shadow  of  which  we  stand.  To  answer  one  of  my 
questions  just  put,  I  use  them  as  terms  of  praise,  not 
as  tests  for  the  next  poem  that  comes. 

On  the  other  hand  one  can  really,  if  only  in  a  negative 
way,  judge  the  form  of  a  new  work.  Forms  change  and 
become  outworn  though  the  essential  stuff  of  literature 
may  be  the  same  from  age  to  age.  A  five-act  play, 
written  now  in  just  Shakespeare's  verse,  if  such  a  thing 
could  be  done,  would  be  something  of  a  sham  antique. 
Good  Tennysonian  blank  verse  betrays  many  pretentious 
poems.  The  imitators  of  Blake  and  Browning  have  not 
surpassed  their  masters.  Whitman,  however,  the  most 
confident  of  us  cannot  condemn  so  easily.  He  may  be 
but  another  eccentric.  He  may  be  the  great  innovator. 
The  futurists  may  be  charlatans,  or  fools,  or  lunatics. 


4  LITERATURE    IN   IRELAND. 

They  may  be  prophets.  The  difference  of  their  manner 
from  the  good  old  ways  does  not  prove  their  rightness 
or  their  greatness  ;  but  the  hostile  critics  of  their  works 
use  words  and  weapons  so  like  those  used  against  other 
work  that  survived  attack  and  afterwards  became  right 
and  great  and  good,  that  one  cannot  lightly  join  them. 
Most  writers  who  made  daring  departures  in  form  merely 
wandered  off  and  were  lost.  Yet  the  new  path  of  some 
pioneer  to-day  may  prove  the  right  turning  for  all.  The 
path  of  glory  in  literature  has  not  been,  as  many  appear 
to  think,  the  broad  and  easy  way.  It  is  now  beaten 
broad  enough — up  to  a  certain  point,  reached  a  generation 
ago — by  the  feet  of  many  who  have  followed  in  the  tracks 
of  men  who  discovered  things  in  the  heavens  and  on  earth, 
not  keeping  their  eyes  on  their  feet,  and  of  men  who  ran 
hither  and  thither  after  splendid  adventures,  and  of 
men  who  fared  far  to  the  east  and  to  the  west  lured  by 
the  voices  of  strange  peoples.  It  is  not  the  obvious 
straight  path  that  leads  from  height  to  height. 

As  with  the  masters,  so  with  what  we  have  still  to  call 
the  movements  The  Renaissance,  in  whose  mode  we 
are  still,  or  have  been  till  now,  had  its  new  wine  and  its 
new  vessels.  The  so-called  classic  and  romantic  move- 
ments within  it  have  theirs,  each  stage  of  each  remembered 
by  the  double  gift  of  a  master.  The  gift  to  literature 
of  the  writers  whom  I  count  as  of  the  Irish  Mode — 


INTRODUCTORY    AND    GENERAL.  5 

putting  this  term  of  mine  in  the  place  of  that  vague 
and  illogical  Celtic  Note — is  likewise  double.  For  the 
reasons  which  I  here  set  forth,  I  criticise  as  much  the  form 
of  the  work  as  the  import,  though  to  me,  of  course,  that 
import  is  its  chief  worth.  I  make  experimental  studies 
to  satisfy  myself  that  this  is  at  least  a  mode,  distinctive 
and  apart. 

The  Renaissance,  with  the  discoveries  of  Copernicus 
and  Galileo,  the  discoveries  of  Columbus  and  his  fol- 
lowers ;  later  such  things  as  the  discovery  of  the  law  of 
gravitation,  the  Cartesian  philosophy,  the  French  Revo- 
lution, Darwin's  theory  of  evolution  :  these  have  pro- 
foundly affected  European  literature.  They  have  not 
similarly  affected  literature  in  Ireland  This  is  not 
to  say  of  course  that  in  Ireland  writers  are  still  likely  to 
write  of  the  earth  as  the  centre  of  the  solar  system,  of 
epicycles  and  the  rest.  It  is  to  say  that  literature  here 
has  not  had  just  that  education  which  is  common  to  the 
other  literatures  of  western  Europe.  Those  literatures 
have  been,  as  I  have  said,  up  to  these  days,  parts  of  the 
Renaissance.  In  them  the  authority  of  the  ancients 
has  held  : 

"  And  Boileau  atill  in  right  of  Horace  sways." 

That  word  "  authority  "  holds  a  world  of  meaning 
in  this  matter.  Another  word  of  great  content  is 


6  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

"  intellectual."  Intellectualism  is  the  Renaissance. 
When  in  the  place  of  that  clear  standard  we  set  those 
pillars  of  cloud  and  of  fire  known  to  the  spiritual  intui- 
tions, the  day  of  the  Renaissance  is  done  ;  the  forms  of 
Renaissance  literature  decay. 

In  Ireland  some  literature  has  kept  the  old  way  familiar 
to  the  Middle  Age. 

Let  me  not  anticipate  my  conclusion.  Let  me  make 
clear  my  meaning  of  things  I  have  said  above. 

In  his  sonnet,  On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer, 
Keats  has  set  together  the  three  great  influences  of 
Elizabethan  literature :  the  classic  world,  its  art,  its 
literature,  its  story,  represented  by  Homer  ;  the  new 
astronomy  that  raised  adventure  to  the  skies  ;  the  new 
discoveries  that  opened  to  the  view  new  seas  and  lands 
beyond  the  peaks  of  Darien.  Keats  himself,  who  might 
have  lived  long  enough  for  me  a  child  to  know  him,  owned 
the  same  influences.  He  touched  in  not  too  late  a  day 
the  beautiful  mythology  of  Greece  ;  yet  he  felt  other 
influences  too.  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci,  though  he 
may  have  disdained  it,  shows  that  another  wind  blew 
on  him  at  hours.  So  too  with  the  other  arts  in  his  time. 
They  derived  from  Italy,  and  through  Italy  from  Greece. 
To  our  eyes  even  the  Romantic  era  has  a  classic  quality, 
a  sense  of  repose  almost,  compared  with  the  disturbance 
now  taking  place  in  all  the  arts.  All  the  forms  are  suffer- 


INTRODUCTORY    AND    GENERAL.  7 

ing  change.  It  would  seem  that  the  mind  (its  outlook 
and  its  inlook,  if  one  may  say  so)  is  suffering  change  and 
demanding  different  forms  of  expression.  This,  since  the 
establishment  of  Impressionism,  is  more  easily  admitted 
in  painting  than  in  literature,  as  indeed  since  Wagner  it 
may  be  more  easily  admitted  in  music  too  ;  but  to  anyone 
conversant  with  modern  literature  the  same  change  of 
order  is  evident  here.  Compare  modern  poems  and 
modern  novels,  the  claim  of  which  to  serious  recognition 
cannot  be  denied,  with  similar  works  of  the  previous 
ages  and  you  will  at  once  perceive  that  the  difference 
here  too  is  due  to  the  introduction  of  Impressionism 
and  Wagnerism.  To  us  as  to  the  ancient  Irish  poets,  the 
half-said  thing  is  dearest.  The  rhythm  made  by  an  emo- 
tion informs  the  poem  and  so  recreates  the  emotion. 
As  to  the  mystic,  so  to  the  lyric  poet  the  unknown  tran- 
scends the  known.  The  purely  rational,  purely  intellec- 
tual way  of  expression  does  not  lead  from  it  and  so  to  it. 
I  am  not  writing  here  of  European  literature  in  general, 
or  of  English  literature  in  particular.  I  am  introducing 
a  movement  that  is  important  to  English  literature, 
because  it  is  in  part  a  revolt  from  it — because  it  has  gone 
its  own  way,  independent  of  it,  though  using  for  its  lan- 
guage English  or  a  dialect  of  English.  I  am  treating  it  as 
a  separate  thing  ;  and  all  that  I  have  said  so  far  is  said 
rather  by  way  of  comparison,  to  set  it  in  its  true  light. 


8  LITERATURE   IN    IRELAND 

It  enters  literature  at  a  period  which  seems  to  us  who  are 
of  it  as  a  period  of  disturbance,  of  change.  Its  mode 
seems  strange  to  the  critics  and  to  the  prosodists  of  the 
old  order.  Its  mode  is  not  that  of  the  Futurists  or  the 
writers  of  vers  libres  ;  but  still,  coming  with  the  work 
of  these,  it  stands  as  another  element  of  disturbance,  of 
revolution  ;  it  is  comparatively  free  from  the  old  autho- 
rity imposed  by  the  Renaissance,  while  the  other  elements 
in  this  disturbance  are  rebelling  against  that  authority  ; 
it  is  the  mode  of  a  people  to  whom  the  ideal,  the  spiritual, 
the  mystic,  are  the  true,  while  theirs  is  that  of  people  who 
seek,  however  blindly,  for  a  truth  beyond  the  easy  truth 
which  is  the  beauty  of  the  romantics,  who  will  not  admit 
that  this  identification  of  a  rational  truth  and  a  rational 
beauty  is  all  they  know  on  earth  or  all  they  need  to  know. 
Beyond  this  I  would  not  urge  the  parallel ;  but  this  it  is 
necessary  to  note  in  order  to  understand  the  reception 
given  to  the  Irish  Mode.  It  has  come  in  its  due  time. 
Mangan  and  Callanan  in  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth 
century  tuned  the  harp  that  is  now  ringing  to  the  hands 
of  many.  Ears  that  in  the  older  days  would  not  have 
listened  to  the  rarest  music  of  that  harp  are  now  atten- 
tive to  every  tone.  The  poets  of  this  mode  have  till 
now  been  ignorant  of  the  parallel  movement ;  they  have 
taken  little  or  no  note  of  the  new  writers  of  free  verse 
or  of  the  futurists.  Yet  their  work  to  the  coming  age 


INTRODUCTORY    AND    GENERAL.  9 

may  appear  one  with  the  work  of  these.  And  indeed 
there  is  a  near  kinship.  The  freedom  being  sought  now 
elsewhere  has  long  been  enjoyed  here.  One  might 
reasonably  argue  that  Macpherson,  so  great  an  influence 
in  the  Romance,  was  the  first  of  the  free  verse  men — that 
his  work  marks  the  beginning,  not  merely  of  the  Romantic 
Era  of  European  literature,  but  of  that  freedom  of  the  new 
time  set  against  the  old  Authority  of  the  Renaissance.* 
In  such  a  train  we  should  come  to  regard  the  Romantic 
Era  as  the  dawn  of  Freedom,  not  the  noon  of  Liberty 
under  Law.  Should  we  follow  such  a  train  we  should 
not  at  the  same  time  forget  that,  as  the  work  of  each  great 
author  may  be  an  epitome  of  a  whole  literature,  with 
parts  representing  all  the  stages — as,  in  English  literature, 
we  find  in  Shakespeare,  in  Milton,  in  Wordsworth,  in 
Keats,  both  the  classic  and  the  romantic,  both  the  medi- 
tative and  the  lyric— parts  which  are  monuments  of 
the  central  tradition,  obedient  to  Authority,  and  parts 
which  are  the  promise  of  the  Freedom  to  be,  with 
examples  of  its  mode,  with  stones  for  the  building 
of  its  monuments,  and  even  the  first  chambers  of 
its  towers,  as  finely  shaped  and  firmly  built  as  any 
added  in  its  full  day  ;  so  the  eras  dovetail  and  interlace  ; 
so  the  colours  shade  into  one  another  ;  so  always  side  by 

*  One  finds  free  verse  in  Mangan.  too, — in  Kidder. 


10  LITERATURE   IN    IRELAND. 

side  go  reaction  and  radicalism  ;  so  the  classic  has  not 
died  and  romance  has  but  revived  ;  and  still  there  is 
nothing  new  under  the  sun  and  all  novelty  is  but  oblivion. 
These  things  we  should  not  forget ;  but  these  should  not 
at  the  same  time  hold  us  from  the  perception  of  change  : 
they  are  limitations  of  the  law,  not  the  law  itself.  The  train 
which  I  have  indicated  would  lead  us  to  look  for  a  trans- 
formation of  literature  similar,  not  to  the  transformation 
which  we  call  the  Romance  (itself  a  beginning,  a  first 
stirring  of  this  greater  change)  but  to  the  Renaissance, 
the  influence  and  authority  of  which  it  would  end.  Such 
a  train  would  give  a  high  importance  to  the  Irish  mode. 

In  the  Bible,  English,  as  other  West-European  litera- 
tures, has  had,  since  the  Renaissance,  a  second  great 
source  of  tradition  and  authority.  A  third  might 
have  been  found  in  that  so-called  folk  literature,  the 
ballads,  the  wonder- tales  and  fragments  of  old  prose 
epics  that  survived  the  change  wrought  in  the  schools. 
Various  strands  of  the  other  two  materials  were  caught 
by  various  hands  and  worked  into  the  fabric  of  the 
literature.  Strands  of  this  material  were  caught  at 
now  and  again — by  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  by  Addison, — 
but  missed  and  merely  looked  at,  not  held  and  woven 
in.  The  strands  hung  down  beside  the  others  with 
which  all  hands  were  busy.  They  have  been  used  now 
these  hundred  years.  Is  the  new  fabric  made  of  them 


INTRODUCTORY  AND  GENERAL.  II 

so  different  from  the  old  that  it  will  tear  away  from  it 
now  that  new  weight  of  the  stuff  wrought  in  these  days 
is  added  ?  For  beyond  that  folk  literature  we  might 
trace  the  Gaelic  influence  direct,  never  quite  absent 
even  under  the  Renaissance,  now  present  and  potent. 

The  work  which  I  have  set  myself  to  do  in  some  of  these 
studies  is  rather  to  examine  the  one  aspect  of  literature  in 
Ireland  than  can  be  examined  and  treated  in  terms  of 
criticism.  To  serve  this  I  have  dealt  with  the  language, 
the  Irish  dialect  of  English,  if  it  can  be  called  a  dialect. 
I  have  not  with  some  modern  writers  made  much  ado 
about  chance  idioms.  The  absolute  construction  found 
in  Charles  Wolfe's  poem,  On  the  Burial  of  Sir  John 

Moore : 

"  And  we  far  away  on  the  billow," 

has  been  traced  by  most  writers  on  this  subject  to  Gaelic 
origin,  and  flaunted  as  a  modern  Irishism.  Of  course 
the  phrase  translates  word  for  word  into  Irish  :  "  agus 
sinne  i  bhfad  ar  an  bhfairrge  "  ;  but  then  the  idiom 
occurs  in  English  too,  easily  enough  and  early  enough. 
I  came  across  an  instance  of  it  the  other  day  in  Pepy's 
Diary,  and  to-day  another  in  Jane  Austen.  Pepy's  : 
"  1665,  2Oth  July.  The  bell  always  going.  This  day 
poor  Robin  Shaw  at  Blackwell's  died,  and  Blackwell 
himself  in  Flanders."  Jane  Austen,  in  Pride  and 
Prejudice,  Chapter  VIII. :  "  Yes,  and  her  petticoat — 


12  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND 

I  hope  you  saw  her  petticoat.  Six  inches  deep  in  mud, 
I  am  absolutely  certain,  and  the  gown  which  had  been 
let  down  to  hide  it  not  doing  its  office."  More  important 
than  such  phrases  is  word  order.  Though  in  Anglo- 
Irish  speech  we  keep  in  the  main  the  order  of  English, 
not  of  Irish,  even  in  the  most  literal  translations,  yet 
the  Irish  way  of  emphasis  is  kept.  The  sentence,  "  I 
came  from  town,"  may  have  four  meanings  according 
to  the  emphasis,  or  rather  the  voice  stress.  An  Irishman 
may  use  this  sentence  as  it  stands  for  those  four  meanings 
too  ;  but  in  general  he  introduces  the  verb  which  corres- 
ponds to  the  Irish  verb  of  identity*  and  brings  into  the 
emphatic  position  after  it  the  particular  word  of  the 
four  which  he  wishes  to  stress.  Thus  he  will  use  such  a 
sentence  as  "It  is  from  town  I  came  "  instead  of  the 
original  stressed  on  the  last  syllable,  and  even  such  a 
Gaelicism  as  "It  is  how  I  came  from  town,"  instead  of 
the  original  stressed  on  the  second.  It  will  be  seen  that 
in  these  substitutes  the  words  do  all  the  work.  The 
voice  does  not  exert  itself.  This  goes  with  the  even  way 
of  speech  that  ranks  equal  with  Irish  metrics  and  Irish 
music  as  one  of  the  most  important  factors  of  the  Irish 
mode  of  versification,  in  English.  I  merely  indicate  these 


*  Is.  There  are  three  distinct  verbs  in  Irish  corresponding 
to  three  senses  of  the  verb  to  be.  The  examples  in  the  text 
will  show  one  use  of  the  verb  of  identity. 


INTRODUCTORY    AND    GENERAL  13 

matters  here,  as  I  have  dealt  fully  with  them  in  the  studies 
which  follow.  Another  matter  worth  indicating  is  the 
phonetic  difference  between  Irish  and  English.  This,  of 
course,  has  to  do  with  that  Irish  way  of  speech  which  I 
have  set  down  as  one  of  the  three  great  influences  on 
the  versification  of  this  Mode. 

So  much  then  for  the  form  :  of  the  spirit,  the  genius, 
of  this  literature,  and  therefore  of  this  people,  I  could 
not  trust  myself  to  speak  :  I  could  not  trust  myself  to  set 
out  with  certainty  Irish  characteristics,  or  to  point  out  the 
probable  trend  of  the  literature.  This  is  an  age  of 
beginnings  rather  than  of  achievements  ;  for  a  hundred 
years  now  writers  in  this  land  have  been  translating, 
adapting,  experimenting — working  as  the  writers  of  the 
sixteenth  century  worked  in  many  countries.  The 
translations  which  have  survived  are  those  most  in  con- 
sonance with  the  genius  of  the  country  An  age  of 
beginnings  :  what  the  next  age  or  the  ripeness  of 
tliis  may  bring,  one  can  only  guess  at. 

Does  some  one  say  that  I  shirk  work  necessary  in  one 
portion  of  my  field — that  criticism  can  deal  surely  with 
national  characteristics  ?  Whimsicality  is  an  Irish  char- 
acteristic as  definite  as  any — that  drollery  so  different 
from  wit  proper,  so  different  from  humour  proper, 
going  waywardly  with  an  inconsequence  that  one 
knows  to  be  natural  Yet  what  is  one  to  say  of 


14  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND. 

it  ?  To  collect  samples  would  be  stupid  work,  and  the 
result  as  stupid  as  any  book  of  bulls.  '  You're  cosy 
and  easy  up  there,  Johnny,"  I  heard  a  man  say  at  a  foot- 
ball match  in  Dublin  to  a  friend  who  watched  from 
a  tree.  The  day  was  windy.  "  Aye,  begad,"  said 
Johnny,  "  blown  about  by  every  breeze,  like  a  bee  on 
a  posy."  In  this,  to  be  sure,  I  might  find  certain  graces 
of  diction,  the  half-rhyme  of  "  cosy  "  and  "  easy,"  with 
the  echo  of  it  in  "  posy,"  and  the  alliteration  of  Johnny's 
b's,  to  say  nothing  of  the  rhythm.  These  things  are 
to  be  found  in  almost  all  Irish  speech  of  a  humorous 
turn.  "  Come  into  my  arms,  you  bundle  of  fun,"  is  the 
more  delightfully  humorous  for  its  obvious  rhythm.  But 
that  examination  would  again  be  of  the  sound  rather  than 
of  the  sense,  and  would  be  to  me  gruesome  work. 

Different  from  such  is  the  great  informing  soul  of  a 
large  body  of  our  lyric  poetry,  of  our  oratory,  and  of 
much  of  the  rest  of  our  literature — "  the  cause  that  never 
dies,"  the  ideal  held  always  by  the  Gaelic  race  that  once 
dominated  Europe — now  held  by  the  heir  and  successor 
of  that  race  here,  the  Irish.  The  calamities  of  our  history 
have  given  a  voice  to  that  cause.  The  constancy  of  our 
race  has  given  pride  to  that  voice.  "It  is  easy,"  says 
a  contemporary  good  critic,*  "  to  be  patriotic  in  the  days 

*  A.C.H.  of  Poetry,  a  Chicago  monthly. 


INTRODUCTORY    AND    GENERAL.  15 

of  a  country's  adversity  ;  for  then  patriotism  means 
something  very  personal.  Its  root  is  personal,  no  doubt, 
although  that  does  not  prevent  the  emotions  transcending 
the  bounds  of  a  merely  selfish  personal  motive.  But  the 
fact  that  the  sentiment  is  emotional  and  personal,  rather 
than  abstract  and  rhetorical,  is  what  constitutes  its  living 
force.  When  a  country  is  in  adversity,  then  this  emotion 
is  continuously  active.  It  is  a  passion  which  absorbs 
all  the  energies.  So  much  so  that  it  completely  enlists 
the  services  not  only  of  men  of  action  and  practical  life, 
but  also  of  the  contemplatives,  the  poets,  the  dreamers, 
for  whom  this  emotion,  like  others,  becomes  trans- 
muted into  something  beyond  the  personal  emotion. 
»  .  .  .  It  is  easy  for  us  to  appreciate  the  Irishman's 
zealous  love  for  Ireland,  the  celebration  of  Bengal  by 
the  great  East  Indian  poet,  or  the  passionate  spirit  of  the 
Roumanian  folk-songs.  Not  only  have  these  the  direct 
motive  of  adversity,  the  minor  note  of  which  has  been  so 
much  in  sympathy  with  the  spirit  of  the  last  century's 
literary  movement,  but  they  are  all  deep-rooted  in  the 
tradition  which  has  had  its  earliest  expression  in  folk-songs 
and  legends — always  an  enduring  basis  for  subsequent 
poets  and  artists,  and  an  integral  part  of  the  blood  and 
bone  of  the  people." 

This  writer  has  stated  almost  sufficiently  for  me  the 
case  of  Irish  patriotism  as  an  inspiration.     It  is  never  far 


1 6  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND. 

off.  Many  strong  workers  in  the  national  movements 
are  good  poets  too  ;  no  Irish  poet  or  dreamer  knows  the 
day  when  he  may  be  called  into  action  in  the  ancient 
fight.  More  than  that,  nearer  here  than  elsewhere  seems 
the  day  that  Ruskin  desired  for  his  own  country  when 
her  soldiers  should  be  her  tutors,  and  the  captains  of  her 
army,  captains  also  of  her  mind*  ;  for  here  the  pro- 
fessional barriers  do  not  keep  life  and  letters  apart,  and 
the  national  cause  survives  politics.  I  have  heard  a  friend 
of  mine  state  on  the  authority  of  one  of  the  new  philo- 
sophers, that  hunger  and  sex  are  the  two  wheels  of 
progress.  If  so,  no  doubt  progress  here  must  be  set 
down  to  the  account  of  hunger.  Sex  counts  for  little 
enough  in  Irish  or  Anglo-Irish  literature.  Mr.  Synge's 
people  talk  more  of  it  than  others,  but  even  they  do  not 
give  it  the  importance  that  it  has  in  most  modern 
literature ;  they  do  not  talk  of  it  in  the  decadent, 
suggestive  way,  however  morbid  the  analysis  of  their 
creator.  They  talk  of  it  rather  like  the  Irish  peasantry, 
whose  language  is  at  times  coarse  enough  while  their 
conduct  is  almost  impeccably  proper.  Such  progress  as 
as  there  is  would  in  this  philosophy  be  set  down  to  hunger  ; 
but  that  seems  to  me  a  mean  way  of  judging  life.  Our 
ideals,  national  and  religious,  are  powerful  and  holy. 

*  The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive  :  War. 

- 


INTRODUCTORY    AND    GENERAL.  17 

Such  a  matter-of-fact  politician  as  Parnell  exhorted  us  to 
national  effort,  not  in  terms  of  hunger  and  profit,  but  in 
terms  of  tradition  and  the  sacred  gift  of  the  ideal  for  which 
we  have  stood  against  tramplings  and  settlements  these 
thousand  years  :  "  Keep  the  fires  of  the  nation  burning." 
This  "  terrible  and  splendid  trust,"  this  "  heritage  of  the 
race  of  kings,"  this  service  of  a  nation  without  a  flag, 
but  "  with  the  lure  of  God  in  her  eyes,"  has  endowed 
some  of  our  poetry  with  meanings  that  must  be  lost  to 
all  but  those  baptized  in  our  national  faith.  To  some 
lyrics  of  Thomas  Moore  the  heroism  and  death  of  Robert 
Emmet,  his  early  friend,  gave  a  quality  of  emotion  far 
deeper  than  the  sentiment  that  usually  fills  his  verse. 
George  Brandes,  in  his  Main  Currents  of  Nineteenth 
Century  Literature  has  shown  the  importance  of  this 
poetry  of  revolt  in  Anglo-Irish.  In  Gaelic  there  is  a 

* 

symbolic  poetry  of  patriotism  that  rises  far  higher. 
Lyrics  like  Eamonn  an  Chnuic,  Druimfhionn  Donn  Dilis 
and  a  hundred  other  such  are  without  parallel  in  any 
literature  that  I  know  of — and  this  too  though,  or  perhaps 
because,  the  Gaelic  poetry  of  the  later  centuries  is  but 
a  wandering  voice.  The  old  courts  of  the  kings  and  the 
halls  of  the  chiefs  were  in  the  earlier  times  centres  of 
culture — of  art,  of  learning,  of  song.  These  gone,  the 
profession  of  poet  lost  dignity  There  was  no  metro- 
politan life  in  Gaelic  Ireland.  The  Gaelic  language  had 


1 8  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

not  the  fixing  and  centralizing  of  the  printing  press,  a 
loss  or  absence  which,  given  othei  advantages,  is  an 
advantage  in  itself,  here  only  a  thing  to  note  as  counting 
for  something.  From  this  Gaelic  source  Anglo-Irish 
inherited  a  folk  poetry  at  times  of  almost  indescribable 
tenderness  and  beauty,  but  narrow  in  range  and  of  little 
variety 

As  in  other  countries,  the  drama  in  Ireland  is  a  foreign 
introduction,  and  an  introduction  of  too  recent  date, 
speaking  nationally,  to  be  yet  subject  for  criticism.  It 
is  probably  certain  that  some  of  the  drama  of  the  present 
day  in  English  will  stand  higher  in  literature  than  any  of 
at  least  the  last  century.  There  has  been  a  revival  of  the 
poetic  drama.  The  new  drama  of  ideas,  of  criticism  of 
life,  is  a  serious  and  important  form  of  literature.  Like 
almost  all  other  forms,  it  has  been  influenced  by,  and  is 
in  part  a  development  of,  that  most  popular  of  all  forms, 
the  novel.  In  prose,  satire  is  perhaps  the  form  surest  of 
enduring  appreciation.  The  drama  of  modern  Ireland, 
in  English,  is  in  the  main  poetic  and  satiric.  It  seems 
indeed  not  free  from  the  faults  of  its  time,  or  rather  of  the 
time  just  gone  by  in  some  of  the  continental  countries, — 
not  free  from  the  faults  of  impressionism,  of  quasi- 
scientific  Ibsenism,  of  unreal  gloom  and  of  shallow 
cynicism.  It  is  its  virtue  to  have  shown  the  way  back  to 
the  life  of  the  people  and  back  to  poetry 


INTRODUCTORY    AND    GENERAL.  19 

One  inspiration  of  literature  remains  to  mention  in  this 
cursory  introduction.  That  mysticism,  which  in  all 
literatures  is  the  promise  and  earnest  of  great  poetry, 
has  come  here  in  these  days.  The  bulk  of  the  mystical 
poetry  I  cannot  claim  for  Anglo-Irish  on  account  of  the 
limitations  of  form  and  language  which  I  have  set  to  these 
studies.  It  is,  nevertheless,  the  growth  of  this  soil,  of 
the  passivist,  contemplative  character  of  this  people, 
so  long  enduring  and  so  certain  of  the  right — the  good. 
Of  the  science  of  mysticism,  so  to  call  it,  these  Irish  poets 
know  little  by  study  or  instruction,  though  one  is  tempted 
to  think  that  with  two  or  three  of  them,  writers  of  fame, 
mysticism  is  an  exteriority,  a  garment  borrowed  from 
the  grammarians  of  this  science  of  the  saints.  It  is,  un- 
fortunately, not  difficult  to  give  to  vague  nothings  set  in 
verse  an  appearance  of  the  mystery  of  St.  John  of  the 
Cross.  But  St.  John,  since  I  mention  him,  would  not 
approve  of  this  perhaps  uncharitable  judgment ;  and 
indeed  in  no  matter  more  than  this  is  criticism  vain. 

These  studies  are  then  a  first  attempt  to  find  standards 
for  criticism  in  Irish  and  Anglo-Irish  literature,  more 
especially  in  Anglo-Irish  poetry.  The  good  critic  must 
judge  a  work  or  a  creature  in  relation  to  its  nature,  its 
aim  or  purpose,  its  aspiration — in  terms  of  what  it  is,  not 
of  what  it  might  have  been  if  otherwise  designed  and 
made.  It  is  vain  to  blame  the  angel  for  not  showing  the 


20  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

steady  utility  of  the  cow,  and  to  blame  the  cow  for  lacking 
the  light  and  service  of  the  angel.  But,  before  coming  even 
to  the  right  way  of  judgment,  the  critic  must  discover 
the  nature  of  the  work  or  creature.  I  try  to  discover  the 
nature  of  some  literature  produced  in  Ireland. 


II. 

ANGLO-IRISH  LITERATURE. 

WE  speak  of  Anglo-Irish  literature  as  we  speak  of  Eliza* 
bethan  literature,  of  the  literature  of  the  Restoration 
age,  or  another,  as  a  province  of  English  literature,  con- 
fined in  the  place  of  its  production  as  those  others  in 
their  periods,  and  with  that  difference  between  place  and 
time,  between  race  and  succession.  A  better  analogy 
than  those  that  I  have  mentioned,  Elizabethan  and 
Restoration,  would  seem  to  be  Scots  literature,  but  I 
have  avoided  that  at  the  beginning  in  order  to  avoid  the 
confusion  that  constantly  follows  such  comparison. 
The  writers  of  the  Restoration  period  of  English  literature 
succeeded  in  natural  order  to  those  of  the  Elizabethan. 
Dryden  refers  to  Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson  as  "the 
writers  of  the  last  age."  Scots  literature  was  born  own 
brother  to  English,  the  literature  of  men  of  the  lowland 
race  ;  and  the  blood  relationship  has  proved  a  strong 
bond.  The  literature  produced  in  the  English  language 
in  Ireland  during  the  nineteenth  century  had  no  such 
rights  of  succession  to  previous  epochs  of  English 


ZZ  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND. 

literature  as  had  the  work  of  Dryden  to  the  work  of  Ben 
Jonson  ;  it  had  no  such  claim  of  kinship  to  any  as  had  the 
work  of  King  James  I.  of  Scotland,  of  William  Dunbar 
and  of  Gawin  Douglas  to  the  work  of  Chaucer  And  Scots 
writers  have  from  the  beginning  recognised  that  kinship. 
In  his  lovely  Lament  for  the  Makaris,  after  having  be- 
wailed the  insecurity  of  life  : 

"  No  stait  in  Erd  heir  standis  sicker  ; 
As  with  the  wynd  wavis  the  wicker, 
So  wavis  this  warldis  vanite  : — 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me," 

and  mentioned  those  of  all  "  Estatis  "  who  go  unto 
death  : 

"  He  takis  the  campion  in  the  stour, 
The  captain  closit  in  the  tour 
The  lady  in  bour  full  of  bewte," 

Dunbar  enumerates  the  dead  poets,  beginning  : 

"  He  has  done  petuously  devour 
The  noble  Chaucer,  of  makaris  flour, 
The  Monk  of  Bury  and  Gower,  all  three  : 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me" 

and  proceeding  with  a  long  list  of  Scots  poets,  some  of 
them  else  unknown.  To  the  Scots  poets  Chaucer  was 
as  Dunbar  says  in  another  poem, 

"  As  in  oure  tong  ane  flour  imperial." 


ANGLO-IRISH   LITERATURE.  *3 

Anglo-Irish  literature  is  then  different  in  its  origins, 
in  its  history,  in  its  tradition,  from  Scots.  At  its 
weakest  and  poorest  it  is  a  weak  and  poor  imitation 
of  the  poor  contemporary  work  of  Englishmen.  At  its 
richest  and  strongest  it  has  qualities  of  its  own  not 
to  be  found  in  the  work  of  any  Englishmen  of  the  time. 
And  it  is  distinctly  a  new  literature,  the  first  expression 
of  the  life  and  ways  of  thought  of  a  new  people,  hitherto 
without  literary  expression,  differing  from  English  litera- 
ture of  all  the  periods  not  with  the  difference  of  age  but 
with  the  difference  of  race  and  nationality.  That  race  is 
the  Irish  race,  now  mostly  English-speaking.  That  life, 
those  ways  of  thought  expressed  in  the  new  literature, 
are  the  life  and  ways  of  the  Gael,  modified  by  the 
change  of  language  from  Gaelic  to  English  and  by  the 
things  that  brought  about  that  change,  but  still  indivi- 
dually Gaelic,  spiritually,  morally,  socially  (in  all  the 
ways  that  matter  in  literature),  filled  with  memories  of 
the  old  Gaelic  literature,  moving  to  the  rhythm  of  Irish 
music  (a  thing  that  matters  very  much  to  the  metric  of 
the  new  poetry),  rich  in  fresh  metaphor,  very  different 
from  the  petrified  boughs  of  imagery  that  do  duty  for 
green  branches  in  many  admired  works  of  this  age.  The 
people  are  agricultural  people,  fresh  from  the  natural  home 
of  man,  the  fields  and  the  country,  busy  with  the  oldest 
and  simplest  things  of  life,  people  who  have  not  grown 


24  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND 

up  in  the  streets  of  towns  among  the  artificialities  of 
civilisation,  with  traditional  memories  of  brick  and 
plaster.  The  Anglo-Irish  literature  that  matters  has  not 
come  from  the  English  spoken  for  hundreds  of  years 
in  the  Pale,  in  Dublin  and  its  surroundings,  by  the 
English  garrison  in  Ireland,  but  from  the  new  English 
speakers  of  the  country  whose  fathers  or  grandfathers 
spoke  only  Irish. 

In  later  studies  I  shall  have  to  deal  on  the  one  hand 
with  the  character  and  growth  of  the  English  language 
in  Ireland  and  on  the  other  hand  with  many  aspects  of 
the  Gaelic  language  and  literature.  Here  I  wish  simply 
to  show,  without  stating  an  opinion  as  to  the  benefit  or 
the  pity  of  it,  that  an  Anglo-Irish  literature  of  individual 
value,  a  literature  of  worth  in  English,  expressing  or 
interpreting  or  criticising  life  in  Ireland  was  possible  only 
when  the  people  whose  life  was  the  subject  matter  spoke 
the  English  language  and  spoke  it  well,  and  when  Irish 
writers  had  attained  what  may  be  called  the  plenary 
use  of  the  English  language — such  use  as  had  decidedly 
not  been  attained  by  some  of  the  Gaelic  writers  who  wrote 
occasionally  in  English  also — when,  in  a  word,  Irish  writers 
and  Irish  readers  were  able  to  practise  and  to  appreciate 
the  art  of  English  poetry  and  the  art  of  English  prose. 
When  this  point  had  been  reached  by  new  writers  who 
were  themselves  of  the  people,  the  English-speaking 


ANGLO-IRISH  LITERATURE.  25 

Irish  people,  then  this  literature  appeared  and  not  till 
then.  The  so-called  Anglo-Irish  literature  of  the  eight- 
eenth century  was  no  such  thing.  Certain  Irishmen, 
going  to  England,  adopted  English  manners,  expressed 
English  or  European  life,  referred  to  themselves  as 
Englishmen.  They  occasionally  introduced  into  their 
work  what  would  now  be  called  a  little  local  colour, 
tinted  with  memories  of  their  early  Irish  days  ;  but  for 
the  rest  they  were  as  much  out  of  Ireland  in  spirit  as  in 
body.  Occasionally  too  they  introduced  to  their  readers 
English-speaking  Irishmen,  but  these  were  either  cari- 
catures or  were  obviously  only  half  articulate  in  their 
new  speech 

At  the  same  time  Gaelic  literature  continued,  but 
with  the  repression  by  law  of  Irish  learning,  the 
language  fell  towards  the  position  of  a  patois,  and 
its  later  literature  is  mostly  of  folk  tales  and  folk 
poems,  sometimes  very  beautiful,  but  in  general  poor 
by  comparison  with  the  monuments  of  previous 
epochs. 

At  the  same  time  also  some  Irish  writers  who  did  not 
leave-  their  own  country,  or  at  least  lived  mostly  in  Ireland, 
emulated  their  emigrant  brethren  and  became  English 
authors,  never  indeed  of  great  importance,  but  frequently 
very  ingenious,  writing  in  English  either  of  a  life  that 
they  did  not  know  at  first  hand  or  of  a  life  that  they  could 


26  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

not  express  in  this  language,  and  so  always  something 
out  of  joint. 

One  small  body  of  poems  has  the  timber  and  the  sap 
of  true  literature,  but  wants  the  shaping  and  the 
higher  graces.  This  consists  of  the  street  ballads,  almost 
altogether  of  Dublin  origin.  If  one  can  have  regrets 
in  such  a  matter  as  literary  criticism  and  history,  if  one 
can  wish  that  things  had  ever  gone  otherwise,  one  must 
regret  that  Dublin  did  not,  in  the  eighteenth  or  early 
nineteenth  century  produce  an  Irish  Villon,  a  University 
wit  capable  of  writing  a  poem  like  The  Night  before  Larry 
was  Stretched.  The  capital  produced  none  such ;  and 
the  ballads,  religious  and  ribald  and  rebelly,  are  frag- 
mentary and  spasmodic  :  they  created  no  fine  literary 
tradition.  No  author  arose  of  the  more  urbane  or  of  the 
more  rural  forms  of  literature  who  was  at  once  sufficiently 
Gaelic  to  express  the  feeling  of  the  central  Irish  tradition 
and  sufficiently  master  of  English  style  to  use  it  as  one 
uses  the  air  one  breathes.  George  Darley's  references 
to  Irish  history,  his  use  of  Irish  clan  names,  are  weak  and 
colourless.  Curran's  Irish  phrases  are  ungrammatical, 
Drennan,  at  his  simplest  a  fine  poet,  in  his  eloquent  poems 
stammers  twenty  book-words  to  fill  the  place  of  one  true 
epithet. 

I  would  not  be  taken  as  wishing  in  any  way  to  belittle 
the  intentions  of  these  writers  or  of  those  others  men- 


ANGLO-IRISH   LITERATURE.  27 

tioned  above,  who  were,  as  I  have  said,  something  out 
of  joint.  They  lived  according  to  their  lights.  They 
did  the  work  they  found  to  their  hands.  They  were  not 
Gaelic,  or  at  least  they  were  not  in  touch  with  the  Gaelic 
tradition.  They  thought  they  knew  a  better  thing  and 
followed  it.  Most  of  them  recognised  as  their  kith  only 
the  small  English-speaking  fragment  of  Ireland  ;  and  that 
fragment  had  not  the  culture,  the  enthusiasm  or  the 
intensity  of  life  that  breaks  into  poetry  or  eloquence.  Some 
of  the  early  Anglo-Irish  writers,  not  the  emigrants  like 
Goldsmith,  Swift  and  Sheridan,  anticipated  the  cohesion 
of  the  English-speaking  Irish  race,  and  began  to  translate, 
adapt  and  imitate  Gaelic  literature.  Irish  music  was  one 
of  the  most  powerful  influences  in  the  work  of  Thomas 
Moore.  Others  adopted  the  sentiments  of  the  only 
articulate  popular  politics  of  their  day,  the  politics  of 
Grattan  and  the  sympathetic  Protestant  patriots,  the 
patriotism  of  the  Pale,  a  very  different  thing  from  the 
national  feeling  of  the  real  Irish  people  ;  but  these,  such 
of  them  as  Charles  Macklin,  on  his  return  to  Ireland, 
appealed  still  only  to  Dublin  audiences.  The  day  of 
Anglo-Irish  literature  had  not  arrived,  because  the  Anglo- 
Irish  author  could  not  yet  be  the  poet  of  his  little  clan. 
The  old  inspirations  that  had  moved  poets  in  this  land 
were  not  breathed  into  the  souls  of  those  men  of  alien 
speech. 


28  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

I  have  so  far  used  without  definition  the  term  Anglo- 
Irish.  Like  many  terms  of  the  kind,  it  is  misleading  and 
awkward,  yet  so  well  established  by  usage  that  it  can 
scarcely  be  dispensed  with.  It  can  be  applied  only  to 
language,  and  so  to  literature.  There  is,  of  course,  no 
Anglo-Irish  race,  though  many  Irishmen  have  English 
blood  in  their  veins.  The  invaders  who  came  at  the  end 
of  the  twelfth  century,  under  Strongbow  and  his  fellows, 
were  Flemings  and  Welsh,  not  English.  The  English  who 
were  planted  in  Ireland  under  Mary,  Elizabeth,  James, 
Cromwell,  and  their  successors,  formed  a  small  portion  of 
the  people,  and  though  they  brought  the  language  which 
is  now  spoken  by  the  majority  of  the  Gaelic  people,  they 
made  little  enough  impress  on  the  race  that  they  dis- 
possessed and  drove  westwards.  With  the  language,  the 
Anglo-Irish  dialect,  English  as  we  speak  it  in  Ireland,  to 
use  Dr.  Joyce's  phrase,  I  shall  deal  in  a  later  study 
Here  it  is  well  at  once  to  make  clear  that  the  term  Anglo- 
Irish  literature  is  applied  very  rarely  to  the  meagre  writ- 
ings of  the  planters  ;  it  is  worth  having  as  a  term  only  to 
apply  to  the  literature  produced  by  the  English-speaking 
Irish,  and  by  these  in  general  only  when  writing  in 
Ireland  and  for  the  Irish  people.  We  shall  find  some  few 
writers  such  as  Lionel  Johnson  and  Nora  Chesson  of  the 
last  generation  who,  born  and  living  altogether  out  of 
Ireland,  were  yet  so  much  in  love  with  Ireland,  in  sym- 


ANGLO-IRISH  LITERATURE.  29 

pathy  with  the  Irish  Mode,  in  consonance  with  the  Irish 
rhythm  of  life  and  literature,  in  converse  with  Irish 
people  and  out  of  converse  with  others,  that  they  must 
be  counted  of  the  number  who  come  within  the  narrowest 
definition  of  our  term.  So  also  one  or  two  of  the  best 
Gaelic  writers  of  our  time  have  no  personal  knowledge 
of  this  country.  On  the  other  hand  some  of  us  who  live 
in  Ireland,  of  Gaelic  stock,  even  of  Gaelic  speech,  are  for 
all  that  more  Greek  than  Gael.  It  is  difficult  to  fix  the 
zone  ;  but  by  the  time  we  have  analysed  some  char- 
acteristics of  Irish  literature  in  the  two  languages  and 
verified  the  qualities  of  the  Irish  Mode,  though  we  shall 
probably  have  shortened  the  list  of  Anglo-Irish  authors, 
it  is  to  be  hoped  that  by  doing  so  we  shall  have  enhanced  its 
value.  For  the  rest,  Ireland  can  now  afford  to  contribute 
of  her  new  wealth  to  the  common  literature  of  the  English 
language,  keeping  this  characteristic  literature  of  her  own 
apart. 

Before  proceeding  to  this  analysis  and  verification  it  is 
well  to  examine  origins,  tradition,  history  and  other 
influences,  beginning  with  the  question  of  language  and 
literature. 


30  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 


III. 

LANGUAGE  AND  LITERATURE. 

"  OUR  morning  star,"  wrote  old  Archbishop  Trench, 
"  Chaucer  yet  ushered  in  no  dawn  which  was  on  the 
point  of  breaking."  The  well  of  English  undefiled  was 
indeed  for  just  two  hundred  years  alone  the  one  rich 
source  of  English  literature.  Then  many  waters  broke 
from  the  ground  of  the  English  language  and  the  stream 
flowed  strong. 

The  date  of  the  beginning  of  the  Canterbury  Tales, 
1386,  is  a  useful  one  to  count  by.  English,  for  quarter  of 
a  century  the  language  of  the  Courts  of  Law,  had  then 
just  replaced  French  as  the  language  taught  in  the  schools. 
Chaucer's  important  contemporary,  Gower,  was  on  the 
point  of  turning  from  the  French  and  Latin  of  his  previous 
works  to  the  English  of  his  third  poem,  Confessio  Amantis. 
The  promise  of  an  English  literature  must  have  appeared 
fair  Yet  the  language  had  to  wait  long  for  its  fulfilment. 
It  had  to  go  to  school  again,  and  to  a  different  school ; 
it  had  to  unlearn  and  to  learn.  It  had  to  mellow  its 
voice  in  silence  ;  it  had  to  train  its  members  in  patience, 


LANGUAGE   AND   LITERATURE.  31 

before  it  could  attain  the  utterance  and  the  gesture  of 
its  new  youth  and  its  prime.  The  language  of  Chaucer 
had  not  in  his  day  become  the  national  language.  His 
contemporary,  Langland,  used  a  different  syntax.  The 
Anglo-Norman  people,  of  which  Chaucer  was  a  good 
type,  had  to  mingle  and  to  weld  before  its  thought  and 
emotion  could  find  expression  in  the  modern  English 
of  the  last  three  hundred  and  fifty  years.  The  literature 
of  a  dialect  is  tuneful  only  to  the  accompaniment  of  a 
central  literature. 

It  is  significant  that  no  English  poet  of  importance  has 
followed  in  Chaucer's  way.  He  is  the  best,  indeed  the 
only,  true  narrative  poet  of  the  language.  He  is  in  a  cer- 
tain sense  the  least  lyric  of  the  great  English  poets.  In 
this  one  quality  of  his  work  he  is  so  much  akin  to 
French  poets  that  one  is  tempted  to  set  it  up  with  other 
barriers  and  divide  him  from  English  literature  proper. 

I  urge  this  matter  here  with  instance  because  I  wish  to 
make  clear  the  connection  in  Ireland  between  language 
and  literature,  to  show  that  though  in  the  seventeenth 
and  eighteenth  centuries  an  Irish  Chaucer  might  have 
arisen,  turning  from  the  Gaelic  of  his  clan  to  the  English 
of  the  Pale,  he  would  have  been  only  a  morning  star  too, 
not  the  rising  sun.  Of  course  there  are  differences  in  the 
conditions  and  the  rest,  but  the  main  consideration  is  that 
a  literature  with  the  seeds  of  succession  in  it  comes  in  the 


32  LITERATURE    IN   IRELAND. 

mother  language  of  the  teller  and  of  the  listener,  of  the 
singer  and  of  those  who  take  up  the  refrain.  The  simple 
fact  is  that,  as,  according  to  a  certain  Scot,  there  must 
always  be  two  parties  to  a  joke,  the  man  who  makes  it 
and  the  man  who  sees  it ;  so,  surely,  there  must  be  two 
parties  to  the  making  of  a  literature  ;  and  the  second 
party  must  be  capable  of  full  appreciation.  The  poet  is, 
no  doubt,  as  I  have  said  elsewhere  in  this  volume,  his  own 
first  audience  His  poetry  is  a  matter  between  himself  and 
himself.  If  others  afterwards  come  and  share  his  joy,  the 
gain  is  theirs  But  he  is  sensitive  to  the  emotions  and  sym- 
pathies of  his  country  and  time  He  is,  whether  he  like 
it  or  not,  the  heir  of  the  ages,  in  possession  of  the  passing 
period  and  of  the  future.  He  himself  is  the  poet  and 
himself  the  auditor  ;  but  his  second  self  is  a  critic,  and  to 
be  a  critic  is  to  know  other  men  and  to  appreciate  the 
tastes  of  other  men,  and  these  others  almost  of  necessity 
his  countrymen.  He  is  most  blessed  when  his  country- 
men are  fresh  for  literature — which  is  not  to  say  that 
a  writer,  whatever  his  genius,  could  initiate  a  separate 
literature  merely  by  seeking  and  finding  a  people,  even 
his  own  people,  without  a  modern  literature.  His  doing 
so  depends  on  the  people,  on  the  state  of  their  culture, 
and  more  particularly  on  the  state  of  their  ideals,  national, 
religious,  mystical.  And  when  he  finds  them  with  all 
these  qualities,  he  must  speak  not  merely  of  his  people, 


LANGUAGE   AND   LITERATURE.  33 

but  to  them  and  for  them,  discovering  them  to  themselves, 
expressing  them  for  themselves.  William  Carleton  made 
the  mistake,  during  one  part  of  his  career  at  least,  of  writing 
about  Ireland  for  a  foreign  audience.  He  hoped,  as  he 
says  in  a  letter  from  London  to  his  daughter,  to  reach 
a  popularity  equal  to  that  of  Dickens  or  Thackeray,  "  and 
consequently  to  have  the  English  publishers  at  my  feet 
and  willing  to  come  to  my  own  terms."  Carleton  knew 
Irish,  and  might  possibly,  some  think,  have  been  the  Gaelic 
Mistral — if  he  had  been  a  patriot.  As  it  was  he  fell  between 
two  stools.  The  Irish  people  proper  were  deaf  to  his 
word  :  the  English  people  listened  while  moved  by  the 
horrors  of  the  Famine  of  1847,  and  then  turned  a  deaf  ear 
too  A  Moliere  that  cannot  interest  his  washerwoman 
will  not  interest  the  passers  by. 

English  literature  has  had  some  difficulty  in  getting 
rid  of  the  phraseology,  the  inversions,  the  poetic  words, 
the  cumbrous  epithets,  the  mannerisms,  of  its  pastoral 
and  of  its  genteel  days.  It  has,  indeed,  not  yet  got  quite 
rid  of  them.  The  English  reading  of  the  early  Anglo- 
Irish  writers  filled  their  memories  with  those  old,  stale 
things;  but  the  individual  Anglo-Irish  literature  of  which 
I  write  has  no  such  lumber  It  is  the  record  of  the  speech 
of  the  people,  the  living  word — sometimes,  no  doubt, 
heightened,  to  use  the  old  phrase,  but  of  a  di- 
rectness that  Wordsworth  would  have  adored.  Indeed  it 


34  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND. 

would  seem  that  the  desire  of  Wordsworth  for  a  literature 
written  only  in  the  common  language  of  the  people  is  best 
fulfilled  in  the  work  produced  in  Ireland.     His  own  work 
rarely  attains  the  level  balance  of  such  poems  as  Michael : 
the  weak  prose  of  some  of  his  peasant  verse  errs  as  much 
on  one  side  as  does  the  heightened  diction  of  such  a  poem 
as  The  Affliction  of  Margaret  on  the  other.      Of  course 
the  very  latest  of  the  Anglo-Irish  writers  have  had  some- 
thing of  Wordsworth's  difficulty.     Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats,  who, 
for  all  the  unearthliness  of  much  of  his  work,  has  used  in 
his  lyrics  the  most  direct  colloquial  phrase,  confesses  this 
in  some  of  his  poems.     And  in  a  letter  to  the  writer  he  has 
said  :    "I  remember  as  an  important  event  getting  rid 
of  the  word  '  rife.' '      In  passing,  one  may  remark  that  this 
striving  after  colloquial  directness  has  its  dangers  too . 
The  latest  poems  of  Mr.  Yeats  show  that  he  has  failed 
to  recognise  an  important  fact  of  English  grammar,  the 
function  of  the  conventional  word   order.     Admit  that 
poetic  licences  should  be  no  more  allowed  than  other 
licences,  but  examine  poetry's  charter  of  liberty  before 
you  tear  it  up.     It   is    an   older   charter   than  that  of 
prose. 

One  of  the  distinctions  of  this  Anglo-Irish  literature 
that  marks  it  off  from  the  mere  epochs  of  English  literature 
proper  is  its  independence  of  obsolete  species.  It  matters 
nothing  to  Irish  writers  of  the  day  that  English  has  had 


LANGUAGE  AND   LITERATURE.  35 

in  due  succession  its  lyric,  its  dramatic,  its  epic,  its 
didactic  poetry  and  then  the  new  lyric  of  romanticism, 
inspired  by  the  Celtic  breath  ;*  that  the  Elizabethan 
prose  writers,  even  Bacon,  set  no  standard,  made  no 
lasting  moulds,  were  again  morning  stars  and  not  day 
stars  ;  that  prose  went  on  many  anvils  before  it  was 
fit  for  all  its  uses  ;  that  it  has  to-day  become  at  once 
keen  and  flexible  only  after  that  long  tempering.  In 
spite  of  the  self-consciousness  of  the  age,  in  spite  of  the 
world  influences  felt  here,  in  spite  of  all  our  criticism, 
the  Irish  poets  and  writers  (those  that  are  truly  Anglo- 
Irish)  are  beginning  it  all  over  again  in  the  alien  tongue 
that  they  know  now  as  a  mother  tongue  They  delight 
not  in  the  ink-horn  terms  of  the  English  literary  suc- 
cession, but  in  the  rich  living  language  of  a  people 
little  affected  by  book-lore,  a  people  standing  but  a  little 
way  on  the  English  side  of  the  crossways,  remembering 
something  of  the  syntax  or  the  metaphor  of  Gaelic, 
much  of  the  rhythm,  inventing  mostly  for  itself  its  meta- 
phor from  the  things  of  its  life,  things  known  at  first 
hand. 

Once  more  this  is  not  to  say  that  the  literature  can  grow 
and  progress  now  as  if  nothing  had  ever  happened  in  the 
world  before — as  if,  for  instance,  the  Renaissance  had  never 

*  I  am  here  claiming  the  influence  rather  of  Macpherson 
than  of  Blake  and  others. 


36  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND. 

been  and  as  if  the  Romantic  Revival  had  not  changed  the 
literatures  of  Europe.  On  the  contrary,  the  things  that 
have  happened,  especially  indeed  the  things  that  have 
affected  English  literature,  must  powerfully  affect  our 
literature.  Indeed  it  has  its  beginnings  partly  in  the 
Romantic  Revival.  To  find  a  literature  that  had  none  of 
its  timbers  out  of  a  previous  edifice  one  would  have  to  go 
back  to  that  raised  in  lamentation  by  Adam  and  Eve  on  the 
loss  of  Paradise  or  of  their  son.  This  Anglo-Irish  literature 
knows  the  poetry  of  Romance.  It  gains  thereby.  It  con- 
tinues it,  and  has  a  chance  of  continuing  in  a  higher  mood, 
given  new  freshness  of  ideas,  freshness  of  race,  inde- 
pendence of  book  tradition,  and  the  advantage  of  expe- 
rience shared  in  common  with  other  English  literature. 
It  departs  from  Romance,  and  still  has  had  the  advantage 
of  using  it.  But  with  all  this,  and  by  all  this,  it  is  a  new 
beginning.  Some  of  its  writers,  docti  sermones  utrimque 
linguae,  cannot,  it  would  seem,  fail  to  be  under  current 
influences.  Does  this  detract  from  its  claim  to  newness 
or  make  it  but  the  going  on  of  an  older  literature,  whether 
Gaelic  or  English  ?  Chaucer's  work,  to  cite  it  again, 
must  have  seemed  a  going  on  in  his  day — part  of  it  a 
continuation  in  English  of  the  work  of  French  poets, 
and  part  a  continuation  of  the  work  of  the  writers  of  the 
old  chivalrous  romances  and  the  like — with  a  new  power 
and  a  new  note.  To  some  who  could  best  appreciate 


LANGUAGE  AND   LITERATURE.  37 

the  work  of  Langland*  he  must  have  appeared  a  man 
who  "  writ  no  language,"  as  Spenser,  in  a  different  light, 
appeared  to  Ben  Jonson. 

Chaucer  stands  in  England  at  the  end  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  Between  him  and  Spenser  intervene  the  bar- 
barous Wars  of  the  Roses,  Amurath  succeeding  Amurath, 
for  all  that  Shakespeare  said.  The  gay  time  of  the 
Canterbury  Pilgrims  was  gone,  when,  in  the  words  of  one 
of  Chaucer's  editors,  those  classes  whose  training  fitted 
and  disposed  them  to  take  an  interest  in  books  were  in  a 
state  of  gaiety  at  once  the  sequel  of  protracted  military 
glory  and  the  foster  mother  of  artistic  productivity  ;  when 
songs  and  pretty  things  were  prized  supremely  ;  when 
luxury  was  new  and  not  quite  understood  ;  when  people 
wore  their  glories  upside  down  ;  when  the  ceremonial 
of  Chivalry  still  retained  the  ostentation  of  devoutness 
and  self-sacrifice.  The  succeeding  time,  so  barren  in 
literature,  was,  for  all  its  ugliness,  really  literature  in  the 
making.  The  last  English  epic  is  the  group  of  Histories 
in  which  Shakespeare  dramatised  the  century  1385-1485. 

In  Ireland  a  period  intervened  between  the  last  days 
of  the  Gaelic  literature  that  mattered  and  the  beginning 
of  the  new  literature  in  the  English  tongue,  between  the 
hope  and  admiration  that  captured  the  imagination  of  the 

*  I  have  not  forgotten  that  hi  the  matter  of  vocabulary 
Langland  is  almost  as  much  under  French  influence  as  Chaucer. 


38  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

people  in  the  days  of  Hugh  O'Neill  and  Hugh  O'Donnell, 
then  of  Eoghan  Ruadh  O'Neill,  then  of  the  Jacobites,  and 
the  new  hope  and  anticipation  that  dawned  in  the  last  cen- 
tury and  is  widened  to  morning  in  this.  The  old  Gaelic 
polity  and  culture  having  lost  their  force  and  their  in- 
tegrity, Gaelic  literature  became  decadent  in  the  time 
of  the  Penal  Laws.  Whatever  the  fate  of  the  Gaelic 
language  and  literature  now  may  be — whether  its  long 
sickness  end  now  in  death  without  issue,  or,  as  some 
of  us  confidently  hope,  in  revival  and  vigorous  life,  with 
renewal  of  the  same  personality,  a  second  youth,  or  in 
the  birth  of  a  new  language  to  utter  a  new  literature, 
destined  to  take  after  its  Gaelic  mother  only  in  some 
parts,  and  for  the  rest  to  bear  the  name  of  bastard  in  its 
childhood  and  of  true-born  heir  in  its  age,  a  well  of  Irish 
undefiled — whatever  is  to  be  in  the  unknown  future, 
it  would  be  folly  to  deny  the  sickness,  the  decadence,  of 
the  immediate  past.  And  while  Irish  was  decadent, 
English  was  not  yet  able  either  to  carry  on  the  tradition 
or  to  syllable  anew  for  itself  here.  The  English-speaking 
population  in  Ireland  had  none  of  the  qualities — social 
cohesion  and  integrity,  culture,  enthusiasm,  joy,  high 
and  brave  emotion — to  stammer  and  then  to  utter  clearly 
the  new  word.  That  word  came  to  the  call  of  the  country. 
It  came  in  the  new  language  and  was  heard  in  the  new 
day.  The  Renaissance  that  stirred  England  to  its  greatest 


LANGUAGE  AND   LITERATURE.  39 

literature  brought  the  mingling  of  the  cosmopolitan  with 
the  national.  Here  the  waters  have  been  stirred  by  the 
breath  of  freedom  :  the  alien  language  has  stirred  to 
expression  on  the  lips  of  the  native  people. 

The  revival  of  nationalism  among  the  Irish  subject 
majority  following  the  days  of  the  Irish  Volunteers,  the 
United  Irishmen,  the  independent  Parliament ;  this 
nationalism,  strengthened  by  O'Connell  with  Catholic 
Emancipation  and  the  franchise ;  this  nationalism, 
hardened  by  the  austere  independence  of  Parnell,  by 
the  land  war  and  its  victorious  close  ;  this,  brought  to 
full  manhood  by  the  renewed  struggle  for  legislative 
freedom  and  the  certainty  of  triumph  and  responsibility  ; 
this,  free  from  alien  hope  and  fear,  craving  no  ease, 
hearing  always  the  supreme  song  of  victory  on  the  dying 
lips  of  martyrs  ;  this  produced  the  unrest,  the  impetuous, 
intrepid  adventure  that  shouts  the  song  of  joy  for  the  sad 
things  and  for  the  glad  things  of  life.  The  song  in  the 
new  language  demanded  an  intellectual  effort  that  gave 
it  a  worth  apart.  English  had  to  be  broken  and  re-made 
to  serve  that  song.  The  language  that  had  been  brought 
to  perfection  for  English  use,  and  then  worn  by  that 
use,  that  had  had  the  fixing  of  the  printing  press  and  had 
set  the  printer's  word  above  the  spoken,  that  language, 
in  order  to  serve  the  different  purpose  of  the  new  people, 
had  to  go  back  to  the  forge  of  the  living  speech.  King 


40  LITERATURE   IN    IRELAND. 

Alfred,  in  the  first  days  of  English  prose,  wrote  long, 
awkward  strings  of  words  for  sentences,  with  little  syn- 
tactical order.  The  modern  English  author  writes  well- 
balanced,  well-ordered  sentences.  But  the  Saxon  King 
expressed  more  truly  his  thought  ;  in  him  the  word  order 
imaged  more  truly  the  thought  order.  The  modern 
writer  uses  counters  where  he  used  coin.  The  modern 
writer  cannot  distinguish  between  his  idea  and  the  set 
phrase  that  does  duty  for  its  expression,  though  its  terms 
have  other  meanings.  He  alludes  to  things.  His  prose  is  a 
hint,  perfectly  understood  no  doubt  by  others  who  know 
the  code,  but  not  for  all  that  a  true  language.  Almost  per- 
fectly it  does  duty  for  a  true  language  to  the  people  with 
whom  it  has  grown ;  better  than  perfectly  in  its  poetry, 
which  gains  in  suggestiveness  more  than  its  loss  in  con- 
creteness.  Compare  the  prose  of  this  language  with  the 
superior  prose  of  French.  Compare  its  poetry  with  the 
far  inferior  poetry  of  French.  It  was,  in  a  word,  the 
English  language,  good  for  the  English  people,  redolent 
of  English  history,  even  of  the  vagaries  and  absurdities 
of  the  history  of  the  English  people,  with  practical  jokes 
and  puns  and  stupid  grammatical  blunders  smelling  sweet 
with  the  aroma  of  some  splendid  verse — with  golden 
lads  and  girls  that  come  to  dust,  as  chimney  sweepers,  and 
with  deeds  of  derringrdo.  This  language,  now  a  courser 
of  ethereal  race  now  a  hack  between  the  shafts  of  com- 


LANGUAGE   AND   LITERATURE.  4! 

mercialism,  serving  Shakespeare  and  the  stenographer, 
used  efficiently  in  William  Blake's  lyrics  and  in  telegrams  ; 
this  differed  in  many  of  the  ways  of  linguistic  difference 
from  the  language  of  the  Gael.  In  it  the  ideas  of  the 
Gael  did  not  find  easy  expression. 

But  I  have  been  led  on  a  little  too  far.  The  language 
that  was  brought  face  to  face  with  Irish  in  the  eighteenth 
and  nineteenth  centuries  was  not  the  language  of  English 
commerce.  The  Gaelic  people  had  for  English  tutors 
the  descendants  of  the  old  English  settlers,  in  whose 
mouths  the  language  was  still  the  language  of  Shakespeare. 
The  transplanted  slip  of  a  language  does  not  develop 
as  does  the  parent  tree.  By  comparison  it  rather  ceases 
to  develop.  The  descendants  of  the  earliest  English 
colonists  here  were  found,  by  a  new  Englishman  of 
Elizabeth's  time,  using  "  the  dregs  of  the  old  ancient 
Chaucer  English."  So  in  our  day  we  find  in  the  mouths 
of  the  people  what  such  a  progressive  might  call  the 
dregs  of  the  old  ancient  Shakespeare  English.  And  this 
was  the  English  that  had  to  be  knit  into  a  different  com- 
plication from  the  modern  complication  of  the  central 
English  language.  For  the  rest,  it  is  not  only  in  Ireland 
that  the  phenomenon  has  occurred  :  analogous  is  the 
use  of  English  by  the  American  booster  and  by  the  mystic 
who  has  to  express  in  terms  of  sense  and  wit  the  things 
of  God  that  are  made  known  to  him  in  no  language. 


' 


42  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND. 


IV 

IRISH  AND  ENGLISH. 

I  MENTIONED  in  the  last  chapter  the  possibility  of  the 
birth  of  a  new  language  in  this  country,  sprung  from 
Irish  and  English.  It  is  of  course  possible,  but  so  un- 
likely as  not  to  deserve  further  discussion.  In  Old 
English  sentence  structure  was  rudimentary.  Long 
before  the  Norman  Conquest  the  Germanic  word-order 
at  the  first  touch  of  French  influence  ceased  to  rule 
alone,  yielding  half  its  sway  to  the  French  Here  was 
a  language  ready  for  transformation.  In  Ireland  at  the 
present  day  things  are  very  different.  The  syntax  of 
the  Gaelic  language — and  it  is  the  syntax  that  matters 
rather  than  the  introduction  of  foreign  words — is  fixed 
and  in  all  important  features  not  likely  to  undergo  modi- 
fication. The  verb  will  precede  its  subject,  the  adjective 
will  follow  its  noun  to  the  end.  Similarly  English  in 
Ireland  will  not  conform  to  Gaelic  rules.  The  sentence 
Is  the  book  there  ?  cannot  be  reconciled  with  Ta  an 
leabhar  ann ;  though  the  Irish  sentence  is  a  word  for 


IRISH  AND  ENGLISH.  43 

word  translation  of  the  English  it  means  The  book  is 
there.  But,  while  this  is  so  and  shall  remain  so,  the 
effect  of  the  thinking  that  expresses  itself  in  the  Gaelic 
modes  has  already  affected  and  must  continue  to  affect 
expression  in  English.  Is  it  the  book  that  is  there? 
translates  directly  an  Irish  sentence  of  the  same  meaning. 
(In  Irish  the  first  word  will  be  the  verb  of  identity.) 
More  important  are  the  use  in  Irish  of  the  concrete  as 
against  the  English  use  of  the  abstract ;  the  use  of  the 
adjective  in  preference  to  the  verb  ;  the  use  of  peri- 
phrasis to  avoid  trusting  to  voice  emphasis  the  meaning 
of  the  sentence  ;  the  more  elaborate  system  of  verbal 
forms  and  the  use  of  a  periphrastic  perfect,  pluperfect 
and  future  perfect ;  idioms  connected  with  the  use  of 
prepositions  ;  the  use  of  the  absolute  case  in  clauses  intro- 
duced by  and  ;  the  use  of  the  one  Irish  word  fein  for 
even  and  self  ;  the  u»e  of  do  bheith  ag  for  have. 

It  would  be  tedious  to  give  many  examples  of  these 
differences.  Passages  quoted  in  subsequent  chapters 
may  be  examined  in  this  connection.  Here  a  few  will 
suffice.  The  English  sentence,  That  startled  me,  trans- 
lates into  Irish  :  That  took  a  start  out  of  me.  I  go  to 
Cork,  translates  according  to  the  word  stressed,  It  is  I 
that  am  going  to  Cork,  It  is  going  to  Cork  that  I  am,  It 
is  to  Cork  that  I  am  going.  English,  /  work  here,  trans- 
lates /  am  (now)  working  here,  I  do  be  working  here, 


44  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND. 

I  (usually)  work  here  ;  I  have,  had,  or  shall  have  worked 
(for  so  long)  translate  /  am,  was,  or  shall  be,  after  working. 
Irish  has  undergone  no   very  violent  change  in  any  of 
its  stages.     Modern  Irish  is  much  more  in  line  with 
Old  Irish  than  is  Modern  English  with  Old  English.  This 
has  saved  Irish  from  the  introduction  of  words  that  are 
rather  labels   than  names,  or,  to  use  my  former  image, 
rather  counters  than  coin  of  intrinsic  worth.     The  name 
of  a  thing  in  Irish,  to  take  the  first  and  most  obvious  of 
all  examples,  is  ainm.    This  word  is  used  also  in  the 
sense   of   the   English   word   noun.     Of  course   gram- 
marians know  of  the  relationship  of  ainm  with  name  and 
noun  and  nomen  and   onoma  ;  but  the  people  to  whom 
such  things  matter  more  do  not  know     A  child  in  an 
English-speaking  school  is  taught — or  used  to  be  taught — 
that  the  name  of  the  thing  he  knows  as  a  hand  must  be 
parsed  as  a  noun,  and  that  a  noun  is  the  name  of  a  person, 
place,  thing,  or  idea.   The  Irish  child,  learning  grammar  in 
Irish,  is  told  that  the  word  la mh  (hand)  is  a  name  (ainm), 
that  the  words  leabhar,  mian,  fuacht,  Baile  Atha  Cliath, 
Eoin    (book,    desire,    cold,    Dublin,   John)    are   names. 
He  deals  directly  with  his  trader  :   there  are   no  middle- 
men with  terms  like  parse,  noun  and  the  rest  to  make 
him  pay  double. 

On  the  other  hand  Irish  has  on  the  whole  remained 
unaffected  by  things  that  have  very  greatly  affected  almost 


IRISH  AND  ENGLISH.  45 

all  other  modern  languages — by  the  printing  press,  by 
modern  commerce,  by  modern  science  and  the  rest.  The 
result  is  that  it  has  not  been  unified.  It  is  still  rich  in 
dialects  and  in  variant  forms.  No  single  literary,  com- 
mercial or  journalistic  language  exists  ;  and,  to  use  an 
Anglo-Irish  phrase,  there  is  no  call  for  one.  The  voca- 
bulary of  the  language  is  very  large.  It  would  seem 
that  the  people,  thrown  back  on  themselves  and  on  nature, 
not  forced  to  invent  technical  terms  for  the  new  things  of 
civilization,  have  gone  on  with  the  minute  study  of  the  old 
things.  They  have  named  all  the  facets  and  distinguished 
all  the  moods.  With  this  they  have  retained  an  ease  for 
full  expression  that  English  does  not  know.  Translation 
from  English  into  Irish  has  more  resemblance  to  rendering 
into  Latin  than  into  a  modern  language,  like  French, 
in  spite  of  all  the  characteristic  qualities  of  English 
Take  this  passage  of  De  Quincey  : 

"  It  adds  much  to  these  considerations  that  Southern 
Asia  is  and  has  been  for  thousands  of  years  the  part  of 
the  earth  most  swarming  with  human  life,  the  great 
officina  gentium.  Man  is  a  weed  in  those  regions." 

This  is  Beaudelaire's  French  version,  almost  a  word 
for  word  translation  : 

"  Ce  qui  ajoute  beaucoup  d  de  tels  sentiments, 
c'est  que  I'Asie  meridionale  est,  et  a  ete,  depuis  des 
milliers  d'annees,  la  partie  de  la  terre  la  plus  four- 


46  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

millante  de  la  vie  humaine,  la  grande  officina  gentium. 
L'homme,  dans  ces  contrees,  pousse  comme  I'herbe." 

Latin  dispenses  with  the  redundancies,  the  over- 
sayings,  compressing  a  phrase  into  a  verb  : 

"  Quod  vero  multo  magis  sentimus  quia  ex  omnibus 
orbis  terrae  gentibus  Asia  meridionalis  per  multa  milia 
annorum  hominibus  maxime  redundat  et  semper  re- 
dundavit ;  officina  gentium,  ut  ita  dicam,  facta." 

When  one  comes  to  translate  this  into  Irish  one  has 
to  choose  between  a  colloquial  version,  easily  compre- 
hensible to  a  people  which  has  none  but  a  literature  of 
folk  poems  and  tales,  and  an  elaborate,  emphatic  version, 
more  carefully  balanced  than  the  Latin,  with  ringing 
rhythms  and  assonances.  To  kill  two  birds  with  the  one 
stone  I  shall  give  instead  of  the  popular  Irish  version 
an  Anglo-Irish  rendering  of  it. 

"  There  is  that  much  sure.  Along  with  that  there  are 
far  more  people  in  South  Asia  than  in  any  other  land  of 
its  size  in  the  world,  and  that  is  how  it  has  been  for  thou- 
sands of  years  now.  A  forge,  or  workshop  of  nations  it 
is, — officina  gentium,  as  you  would  say — or,  to  say  it 
in  another  way,  men  grow  there  like  weeds." 

To  find  a  literary  man  with  a  style  to  set  against  De 
Quincey's  one  has  to  go  back  to  Geoffrey  Keating,  the  last 
classic  prose  writer.  A  friend  of  mine  has  rendered  the 
passage  into  the  Irish  of  Keating  : 


IRISH  AND  ENGLISH.  47 

"  Agus  ni  beag  d'adhbhar  iongantais  duinn  a  mheas 
gurab  i  an  Aissia  theas  fir  is  lia  Idnditreabh  agus  is  lus- 
mhaire  leirthionol  agus  is  truime  trombhuidhean  do 
chriochaibh  domhain  6  chein  mhoir  gus  aniu,  agus  ni 
h-eigcneasta  ghoirid  ughdair  dh'airithe  officina  gentium, 
mar  atd,  ceardcha  ioltuath,  di.  Gd  dtdm  ris  acht  ni 

fairsinge  fas  fiadhlosa  i   bhfeardn  fddbhog  iond  urfhds 

i 
na  h-Adhamhchloinne  ar  ithir  na  h  Innia." 

(And  not  little  reason  of  wonder  to  us  its  consi- 
deration that  it  is  South  Asia  that  is  greatest  of  full  house- 
holds and  that  is  most  plentiful  of  gatherings-up  and 
that  is  heaviest  of  heavy  companies  of  the  territories  of 
the  earth  from  a  long  time  ago  till  to-day  ;  and  not 
unbecomingly  certain  authors  call  it  officina  gentium, 
that  is,  a  forge  of  many  races.  Where  are  we  then,  but 
that  not  more  generous  the  growth  of  wild  plants  in  a 
soft  sodded  grassy  place  than  the  fresh  growth  of  the 
Adam-clan  on  the  arable  soil  of  India  ?) 

One  fears  to  draw  conclusions  too  general  from  par- 
ticular points  of  difference  between  Irish  and  English, 
in  vocabulary  and  in  grammar  The  one  thing  worth 
knowing  in  the  matter,  as  far  as  we  are  concerned  here, 
is  that  there  are  wide  differences,  which  prove  different 
mental  habits,  different  social  conditions,  different  literary 
traditions.  English  writing  is  full  of  metaphor  that 
cannot  be  understood  without  knowledge  of  historic 


48  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND 

events  which  have  not  affected  Ireland  :  Shakespeare's 
plays  are  indeed,  as  has  been  said,  nothing  but  strings  of 
popular  sayings.  Irish  has  a  different  set  of  historic 
memories  and  of  popular  sayings.  These  have  come  into 
Anglo-Irish,  but  not  in  full  force,  and  Anglo-Irish  is  the 
simpler  for  it.  New  images  have  to  be  supplied  from 
current  life  in  Ireland  ;  the  dialect  at  its  best  is  more 
vigorous,  fresh  and  simple  than  either  of  the  two  languages 
between  which  it  stands.  It  is  indeed  by  its  colloquial 
directness  that  you  will  know  the  true  Anglo-Irish  work. 
Some  of  our  best  poems  indeed  have  no  word  or  phrase 
which  alone  could  be  labelled  Irish.  On  the  other  hand 
there  appear  at  present  quantities  of  so-called  Celtic 
poems,  plays,  stories,  which,  for  all  their  Irish  phrases, 
and  indeed  because  of  them,  are  obvious  shams.  A  writer 
of  these  could  turn  almost  any  sentence  into  his  "  Celtic." 
Where  I  have  said  "  Which  are  obvious  shams  "  just  now, 
he  would  say  something  like  this  :  "  And,  Johnny,  I  give 
you  my  hand  on  it  this  night,  'tis  out  and  out  humbugs 
they  are  surely."  One  of  the  most  powerful  writers  of 
recent  years,  the  late  J  M.  Synge,  was  very  often  merely 
"  Celtic  "  in  his  phraseology,  though  far  more  often  rich 
and  right.  His  fault  in  the  matter  was  that  he  crammed 
his  language  too  full  of  rich  phrases.  He  said  that 
he  used  no  form  of  words  that  he  had  not  actually 
heard.  But  this  probably  means  that  he  took  note  only 


IRISH  AND  ENGLISH.  49 

of  the  striking   things,  neglecting  the  common  stuff  of 
speech. 

In  another  matter  Synge  compares  very  favourably 
with  his  Irish  contemporaries,  his  respect  for  the  Gaelic 
language.  He  treats  Irish  as  he  would  treat  French  or 
another  language.  Not  so  many  of  the  best  known  Anglo- 
Irish  writers,  who  treat  Irish  words  as  W.  S  Gilbert  and 
such  writers  for  comic  purposes  used  to  treat  French. 
As  monsieur  became  mounseer  or  mosha,  the  Irish 
Eire  is  rhymed  with  firey  mo  bhuachailin  becomes  ma 
boucheleen,  sldn  and  sldinte  become  Man  and  shlainte, 
against  all  the  principles  of  Irish  phonetics.  It  would 
be  tedious  and  not  edifying  to  deal  thoroughly  with  this 
matter  Irish  has  been  regarded  as  fair  game  for  almost 
any  treatment.  A  language  with  an  elaborate  gram- 
matical system,  with  delicate  phonetic  changes  to  indicate 
changes  of  sense,  is  treated  as  if  it  had  no  system  and  as 
if  it  could  suffer  nothing  from  barbarous  mispronun- 
ciation. If  the  ignorance  or  carelessness  of  the  writers 
who  use  it  so  mattered  only  to  the  Irish  language,  the 
Irish  language  could  well  afford  to  let  it  pass  :  it  would 
affect  it  no  more  than  does  the  fact  that  now,  half  a  century 
after  the  time  of  O'Donovan  and  O'Curry,  the  Royal 
Irish  Academy  has  for  its  president  a  man  so  grossly 
ignorant  of  the  language  that  he  is  incapable  of  pronounc- 
ing the  names  of  the  books  in  its  library.  But  to  the  new 


50  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

generation  of  Irish  readers  who  know  the  two  languages, 
many  otherwise  fine  books  are  spoiled  or  at  least  made  a 
little  foolish  and  ridiculous  by  the  grotesque  disguises 
under  which  Irish  words  appear  in  them.  And  this  ignor- 
ance of  the  authors  is  like  that  of  the  old  sham  philolo- 
gists. A  modern  writer  who  made  an  image  from  the 
derivation  lucus  a  non  lucendo,  who  referred  to  a  wood 
as  "that  which  the  Roman  named  from  darkness/'  would 
be  doomed  to  unintelligible  obscurity  or  to  absurdity. 
What  then  of  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats  who  confesses  that  when 
he  wrote  the  greater  number  of  his  poems,  he  had  hardly 
considered  seriously  the  question  of  the  pronunciation 
of  Irish  words,  who  copied  at  times  somebody's  perhaps 
fanciful  spelling,  and  at  times  the  ancient  spelling  as  he 
found  it  in  some  literal  translation,  pronouncing  the 
words  always  as  they  were  spelt  ?  That  is,  pronouncing 
the  words  as  if  they  were  English.  Mr.  Yeats,  however, 
is  quite  honest  in  the  matter.  He  would  not,  he  says, 
have  defended  his  system  at  any  time  If  ever  he  learns 
the  old  pronunciation  of  the  proper  names  he  has  used  he 
will  revise  the  poems.  He  is  content  to  affirm  that  he  has 
not  treated  his  Irish  names  as  badly  as  the  mediaeval  writers 
of  the  stories  of  King  Arthur  treated  their  Welsh  names. 
But  Mr.  Yeats  is  not  living  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Whether 
we  regret  it  or  not,  we  cannot  ignore  the  knowledge  of 
those  to  whom  we  communicate  our  works.  In  the  lines  : 


IRISH  AND  ENGLISH.  51 

"  The  host  is  riding  from  Knocknarea 
And  over  the  grave  of  Clooth-na-Bare," 

nothing  is  gained,  surely,  by  that  extraordinary  perversion 
of  the  Irish  name  of  the  Old  Woman  of  Beare,  Cailleach 
na  Bear  a.  The  word  clooth  is  not  Irish  ;  it  has  no 
meaning.  Even  for  others  than  Irish  scholars  the  right 
word  would  have  served  as  well.  And — if  it  be  not  too 
Philistine  a  question — would  not : 

"  And  over  the  grave  of  the  Hag  of  Beare," 

have  been  better  in  this  poem  in  English  ?  In  his  revision 
of  The  Wind  Among  the  Reeds,  Mr.  Yeats  has  changed 
Irish  words  into  English,  "  colleens  "  into  "  women." 
Lately  he  has  set  his  face  against  all  this  use  of  Irish 
words  and  Irish  stories  ;  but  he  cannot  undo  his  work. 
Let  me  admit,  before  passing  from  him,  that  his  constant 
use  of  the  form  used  before  him  by  Ferguson,  has  fixed 
a  new  word  in  the  English  language.  Danaan  is  impossible 
in  Irish,  which  has  Dannan  (in  Tuatha  De  Dannan) 
accented  on  the  first  syllable.  Mr.  Yeats  has,  as  he 
claims,  the  excuse  that  the  words  he  uses  are  of  the  old 
language.  Mr.  James  Stephens  has  no  such  excuse 
when  he  translates  Miss  Murphy  into  Ingin  Ni  Murachu, 
sinning  against  Irish  three  times  in  three  words. 

No  modern  writer  treats  Greek  or  Latin  or  French  or 
German  so.     Irish  goes  down  with  the  oriental  languages, 


52  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

Owen  Roe  O'Neill  with  Morari  Row,  Usheen  with 
Alladin.  The  pity  of  it  is  that  it  is  in  Ireland  that  Irish 
meets  this  fate. 

One  influence  of  Irish  remains  to  be  noted,  perhaps 
the  most  important  of  all  with  regard  to  poetry,  the 
effect  of  Irish  rhythm,  itself  influenced  by  Irish  music, 
on  the  rhythms  of  Anglo-Irish  poetry. 

English  rhythm  is  governed  by  stress.  In  England 
the  tendency  is  to  hammer  the  stressed  syllables  and 
to  slur  the  unstressed  syllables.  In  Ireland  we  keep  by 
comparison  a  uniform  stress.  A  child  in  Cork,  reading 
the  word  unintelligibility ,  pronounces  all  the  eight 
syllables  distinctly  without  special  stress  on  any,  though 
his  voice  rises  and  falls  in  a  kind  of  tune  or  croon,  going 
high  upon  the  final  syllable.  Early  Irish  verse  is  syllabic. 
The  lines  are  measured  by  the  number  of  syllables.  In 
modern  verse,  both  Irish  and  English,  the  lines  are 
measured  by  the  feet,  and  commonly  the  feet  differ  from 
one  another  in  number  of  syllables  :  each  foot  has  one 
stressed  syllable.  In  common  English  verse  the  voice 
goes  from  stress  to  stress,  hammering  the  stress.  In 
most  Anglo-Irish  verse  the  stresses  are  not  so  strongly 
marked  ;  the  unstressed  syllables  are  more  fully  pro- 
nounced ;  the  whole  effect  is  different. 

Before  proceeding  to  examples,  it  is  well  to  draw 
attention  to  the  fact  that  some  other  influence,  probably 


IRISH  AND  ENGLISH.  53 

French,  has  produced  a  similar  effect  on  the  verse  of  one 
or  two  English  writers.  Thus  the  poem  of  Ernest 
Dowson's,  Non  Sum  Qualis  Emm  Bonae  sub  Regno 
Cynarae,  which  can  owe,  I  think,  nothing  to  Irish,  has 
that  level  fall  of  syllables,  found  occasionally,  as  I  have 
shown  elsewhere,  in  the  poems  of  Campion  and  one  or 
two  other  of  the  Elizabethan's,  but  not  again  till  the  rise 
of  Anglo-Irish  poetry  : 

"  I  have  forgot  much,  Cynara,  gone  with  the  wind, 
Flung  roses,  roses,  riotously  with  the  throng, 
Dancing,  to  put  thy  pale  lost  lilies  out  of  mind, 
But  I  was  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion — 

Yea,  all  the  time,  because  the  dance  was  long. 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara,  in  my  fashion." 

The  earliest  Anglo-Irish  poems  that  exhibit  this  note 
we  can  compare  with  their  Irish  originals  or  with  Irish 
poems  that  sing  to  the  same  air — for  they  are  almost  always 
songs.  I  quote  two  good  examples,  Callanan's  Outlaw  of 
Loch  Lene  (Killarney)  and  Ferguson's  Cashel  of  Munster, 
giving  the  first  stanza  in  each  case.  Callanan's  poem  can 
be  read  easily  by  the  most  formal  : 

"  Oh,  many  a  day  have  I  made  good  ale  in  the  glen, 
That  came  not  of  stream  or  malt — like  the  brewing  of 

men. 

My  bed  was  the  ground  ;  my  roof,  the  greenwood  above, 
And  the  wealth  that  I  sought  one  far  kind  glance  from 

my  love." 


54  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

Ferguson's  music  is  subtler  : 

"I'd  wed  you  without  herds,  without  money,  or  rich 

array, 

And  I'd  wed  you  on  a  dewy  morning  at  day-dawn  grey  ; 
My  bitter  woe  it  is,  love,  that  we  are  not  far  away 
In  Cashel  town,  though  the  bare  deal  board  were  our 

marriage  bed  this  day  !  " 

One  sees  where  Moore  learned  the  rhythm  of  The 

Irish  Peasant  to  his  Mistress : 

''  Through  grief  and  through  danger  thy  smile  hath 

cheered  my  way. 
Till  hope  seemed  to  bud  from  each  thorn  that  round 

me  lay  ; 
The  darker  our  fortune,  the  brighter  our  pure  love 

burned, 

Till  shame  into  glory,  till  fear  into  zeal  was  turned. 
Oh  !  slave  as  I  was,  in  thy  arms  my  spirit  felt  free, 
And  blessed  e'en  the  sorrows  that  made  me  more  dear 

to  thee." 

Sometimes  we  find  the  Gaelic  internal  rimes — or  rather 
internal  rimes  in  the  Anglo-Irish  poems  where  in  Irish 
we  should  have  assonances  : 

"  If  sadly  thinking,  with  spirits  sinking, 

Could,  more  than  drinking,  my  cares  compose, 
A  cure  for  sorrow  from  sighs  I'd  borrow, 
And  hope  to-morrow  would  end  my  woes." 

One  easily  notes  the  difference  between  poems  of  this 


IRISH  AND  ENGLISH.  55 

kind  with  frequently  recurring  emphasis,  marked  by 
the  rime,  and  poems  like  those  of  Callanan,  Ferguson 
and  Moore  just  quoted.  In  those  there  is  that  grace 
of  the  wandering,  lingering,  musical  voice  which  I  have 
noted  in  connection  with  my  remark  above  or  unin- 
telligibility.  Music  is  definitely  rhythmic,  with  stress 
recurrent  at  regular  intervals  ;  but  as  I  have  said  elsewhere, 
in  certain  Irish  tunes,  set  to  Irish  words,  the  music  goes 
out  of  its  way,  as  it  were,  to  follow  the  varying  expression 
of  the  words,  which  in  an  Irish  song  are  all  important. 
Mr.  Carl  Hardbeck  of  Belfast  has  shown  this  in  his 
lectures.  The  tunes  played  by  him  in  the  ordinary 
way,  without  the  words,  are  inferior  in  beauty  to  the 
tunes  sung  wandering  with  the  wavering  words  of  the 
old  poems.  Modern  airs,  on  the  contrary,  tend  rather 
to  drag  the  words  out  of  their  way  of  sense.  Compare 
the  Elizabethan  setting  of  Shakespeare's  0  Mistress 
Mine  with  the  modern  setting  generally  sung  on  the 
stage  now  in  performances  of  Twelfth  Night.  In  the 
former,  words  and  notes  run  happily,  "  coupled  lovingly 
together,"  to  use  Campion's  phrase.  In  the  latter,  the 
striking  air  of  which  seems  to  have  been  composed  for 
the  violin,  there  is  no  love  lost ;  the  words  have  to 
adapt  themselves  to  the  tune. 

Matthew  Arnold  in  his  essay  On  the  Study  of  Celtic 
Literature,  largely  a  work  of  fiction,  has  written  interest- 


56  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

ingly  of  the  Celtic  Note,  using  the  name  in  a  sense  of 
his  own.  He  has  been  rather  apprehended  than  under- 
stood ;  and  with  later  writers  the  meaning  has  become 
vaguer.  This  is  due,  at  least  in  part,  to  the  vagueness  of 
the  two  terms,  "  Celtic  "  and  "  Note."  I  propose,  in 
my  study  of  the  metrical  effect  of  poems  like  Cashel  of 
Munster,  to  use  instead  my  term,  the  Irish  Mode.  With 
the  rhythm  goes  a  certain  emotion,  as  distinctly  Celtic 
or  Irish,  no  doubt ;  but  emotions  alone  are  unsafe  guides. 


L    57    ] 


ANGLO-IRISH  AUTHORS. 

IN  the  previous  essays  I  have  tried  to  arrive  at  definite 
conclusions  with  regard  to  the  language  of  Anglo-Irish 
literature.  Some  questions  which  to  many  have  ap- 
peared more  important  I  have  avoided,  because  I  recog- 
nise that  in  attempting  to  answer  them  I  should  run  the 
risk  of  suggesting  more  than  I  could  prove,  of  drawing 
conclusions  too  general  from  very  particular  cases,  of 
losing  the  little  that  I  can  hold  by  grasping  either  at  too 
much  or  at  other  little  that  is  of  its  nature  elusive — 
worse  still  of  begging  the  question,  of  running  in  a  circle, 
of  choosing  the  lesson  to  suit  the  example  to  hand.  I 
have  little  sympathy  with  the  criticism  that  marks  off 
subtle  qualities  in  literature  as  altogether  racial,  that 
refuses  to  admit  natural  exceptions  in  such  a  naturally 
exceptional  thing  as  high  literature,  attributing  only 
the  central  body  to  the  national  genius,  the  marginal 
portions  to  this  alien  strain  or  that.  It  may  be  quite 
true  that  John  Keats  owed  the  quality  of  his  work  to  his 
half  Cornish,  half  Welsh  origin.  I  can  say  only  that 


58  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

I  find  it  difficult  to  prove — as  difficult  as  to  prove,  for 
instance,  that  a  man  of  quite  other  extraction  might  also 
have  produced  work  of  similar  quality.  French  poetry 
on  the  whole  has  lacked  the  lyric  note.  One  need  not 
for  that  agree  with  a  recent  writer  that  the  French  poets 
who  have  the  more  intense  lyric  gift  must  have  been  of 
foreign  extraction.  Less  still  need  one  agree  that  a  great 
lyric  poetry  may  not  come  to  France  any  day  and  from 
the  lips  of  French  poets. 

My  definite  conclusions  are  three  : 

First,  that  an  Anglo-Irish  literature,  worthy  of  a  special 
designation,  could  come  only  when  English  had  become 
the  language  of  the  Irish  people,  mainly  of  Gaelic  stock  ; 
and  when  the  literature  was  from,  by,  of,  to  and  for  the 
Irish  people. 

Second,  that  the  ways  of  life  and  the  ways  of  thought  of 
the  Irish  people — the  manners,  customs,  traditions  and 
outlook,  religious,  social,  moral, — -have  important  differ- 
ences from  the  ways  of  life  and  of  thought  which  have 
found  expression  in  other  English  literature. 

Third,  that  the  English  language  in  Ireland  has  an 
individuality  of  its  own,  and  the  rhythm  of  Irish  speech 
a  distinct  character. 

If,  with  some  of  the  best  modern  critics,  we  divide 
literature  into  poetry  and  science,  the  one  to  be  attributed 
to  the  intuitive  faculties  and  the  other  to  the  intellectual, 


ANGLO-IRISH   AUTHORS.  59 

it  may  seem  that  my  conclusions  have  reference  only  to 
the  science,  the  logical  and  the  intellectual.  That  is  not 
quite  so  ;  but  this  work  is  itself  a  work  of  science  in  that 
sense  ;  it  is  a  study,  an  analysis,  aiming  at  the  logical, 
at  a  clear  intellectual  grasp  of  its  subject ;  dealing  with 
literature  and  language,  literature  and  nationality,  and 
the  like,  rather  than  with  the  wind  that  bloweth  where 
it  listeth  or  with  the  utterances,  in  terms  of  sense  and 
wit,  of  mystic  things. 

It  will  be  seen  also  that  these  conclusions  bar  out 
from  my  study  the  works  of  some  Irish-born  writers  of 
the  first  importance,  of  Swift,  of  Goldsmith,  of  Sheridan 
— in  short,  of  all  but  the  more  characteristically  Irish 
authors  of  the  nineteenth  and  twentieth  centuries. 

What  then  will  the  historian  of  Anglo-Irish  literature 
have  to  deal  with  ?  Who  are  the  characteristically  Irish 
writers  that  come  within  the  scope  of  his  study  ? — What 
poets,  what  novelists,  what  dramatists,  what  essayists, 
what  historians,  what  orators  ? 

The  poets  of  the  Irish  Mode  are  evidently  his 
quarry.  Moore  in  the  beginning  is  of  them,  Mangan, 
Ferguson.  Callanan  has  a  few  good  poems  ;  Edward 
Walsh  a  few.  The  best  of  the  later  poets  must  be  reckoned 
under  this  head,  down  to  George  Sigerson,  Douglas  Hyde, 
and  W.  B.  Yeats,  the  elder  poets  of  the  present  day. 

Equally  within  his  scope  are  the  explicitly  patriotic 


60  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

poets,  many  of  whom  have  no  other  subjects  than  national 
ones,  and  yet  who  have  not  in  our  ears,  for  all  their  Gaelic 
words,  the  Irish  accent  of  Ferguson.  Such  are  Davis 
and  the  poets  of  the  Nation.  Such  on  the  whole  are,  in 
our  days,  Gerald  Griffin  and  William  Allingham.  Such 
in  much  of  their  work  are  Emily  Lawless  and  Alice 
Milligan.  There  are  a  few  poets,  like  Aubrey  de  Vere, 
whose  main  work  cannot  be  referred  either  to  the  Irish 
Mode  or  to  living  Irish  patriotism,  yet  who  are  definitely 
Anglo-Irish.  There  are  a  few,  like  Lionel  Johnson 
and  Nora  Chesson  who  were  born  and  who  lived  their 
whole  lives  out  of  Ireland,  and  yet  are  truly  Irish.  Others, 
whose  relations  with  Ireland  and  Irish  life  were  slight, 
have  been  included  in  Anglo- Irish  anthologies  and  the 
like— Edgar  Allen  Poe,  Emily  Bronte,  Arthur  O'Shaugh- 
nessy,  Edward  Fitzgerald.  The  connection  of  some 
of  these  with  the  subject  is,  however,  too  slender  a  link 
to  depend  on. 

Poe,  who  was  a  student  of  Mangan,  had  an  ear  for 
the  Irish  Mode  Emily  Bronte,  on  the  other  hand,  seems 
to  have  thought  that  the  difficulty  she  found  in  conforming 
to  the  conventional  regulations  of  English  verse  was  a 
defect  of  power  in  her.  She  thought  that  to  her  was 
denied,  as  she  said, 

'  The  glorious  gift  to  many  given 

To  speak  their  thoughts  in  poetry/' 


ANGLO-IRISH   AUTHORS.  6 1 

And  her  editors,  her  sister  Charlotte,  Mr.  Clement 
Shorter  and  Mr.  A  C.  Benson,  have  thought  so  too. 
They  have  "  corrected  "  and  "  regularised  "  her  waver- 
ing rhythms,  Mr.  Benson  changing  "  never "  into 
"  ne'er  "  and  "  even  "  into  "  e'en,"  and  regretting  that 
he  cannot  reduce  "  being  "  to  a  monosyllable.  A  good 
critic  in  The  Times  in  defending  her  from  these  men  of 
law,  quotes  an  exquisite  poem,  never  hitherto  correctly 
printed  : 

'  Tell  me,  tell  me,  smiling  child, 
What  the  past  is  like  to  thee. 
An  autumn  evening,  soft  and  mild, 
With  a  wind  that  sighs  mournfully. 

Tell  me,  what  is  the  present  hour  ? 
A  green  and  flowery  spray, 
Where  a  young  bird  sits,  gathering  its  power 
To  mount  and  fly  away. 

And  what  is  the  future,  happy  one  ? 
A  sea  beneath  a  cloudless  sun, 
A  mighty,  dazzling,  glorious  sea, 
Stretching  into  infinity." 

"  The  poet  of 

*  With  a  wind  that  sighs  mournfully/ 
and  of 

*  Where  a  young  bird  sits,  gathering  its  power/ 

knew,"  he  says,  "  the  value  and  the  music  of  every  word 
she  wrote  and  was  in  no  need  of  assistance  in  the  counting 


62  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

or  compressing  of  her  syllables."  What  a  pity  it  is  that 
she  did  not  know,  by  more  than  an  hereditary  memory 
and  feeling,  the  mode  of  her  kinsman,  the  Gaelic  poet 
Padraic  O  Prunta.  She  might  in  Ireland,  with  Irish 
music  around  her  and  Irish  speech,  have  come  to  confident 
maturity,  a  great  lyric  poet.  As  it  was  she  failed  to  reach 
that  confidence  and  that  ripeness.  "  Emily  Bronte," 
says  the  anonymous  critic  from  whom  I  have  quoted 
just  now,  "  with  no  dialect  (such  as  Burns  had)  to  isolate 
and  reflect  her  to  her  own  eyes,  was  continually  attempt- 
ing the  '  English  poem/  unaware  of  her  true  vein." 
So  too  with  the  other  exiles  and  strays.  We  have  to 
share  in  their  loss 

The  Anglo- Irish  prose  authors  offer  little  difficulty  ; 
although  their  prose,  except  when  it  is  a  record  of  peasant 
speech,  has  nowhere  the  distinct  characteristics  of  Anglo- 
Irish  verse.  The  novelists  are  Maria  Edgeworth,  Charles 
Mathurin, William  Carleton,  Charles  Lever,  Samuel  Lover, 
Gerald  Griffin,  J  Sheridan  Lefanu,  the  Banims  and  some 
more  recent  writers  ;  the  orators,  Grattan,  Flood,  Curran, 
Robert  Emmet  (by  virtue  of  his  one  speech),  Daniel 
O'Connell,  Richard  Lalor  Sheil,  Butt  and  a  few  others  ; 
the  historians  of  literary  stature,  Mitchel  and  Lecky. 
The  few  Irish  dramatists  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
from  Macklin  to  the  foundation  of  the  Irish  Literary 
Theatre,  have  little  importance  in  literature.  The 


ANGLO-IRISH   AUTHORS.  63 

political    essayists    are   Davis,    Fintan   Lalor   and   their 
fellows. 

The  names  of  these  authors  answer  my  question  of  six 
terms  above.  There  is  one  other  group  of  authors  whose 
work  is,  in  one  sense  of  the  word,  more  truly  Anglo- 
Irish  than  that  of  any  of  the  writers  I  have  mentioned 
here,  with  the  exception  perhaps  of  such  men  as  Mangan 
and  Ferguson  I  refer  to  the  great  translators,  those 
pioneers  of  Irish  studies  who  rendered  the  Old  Irish 
poems  and  sagas  into  an  English  which  gained  from  the 
originals  a  distinct  power  and  beauty.  The  importance  of 
the  work  of  Eugene  O'Curry,  John  O'Donovan,  Whitley 
Stokes,  Standish  Hayes  O'Grady,  can  scarcely  be  over- 
estimated. With  these  scholars  stands  George  Petrie. 
Apart  from  them,  not  a  scholar  like  them,  yet  looking  in 
the  same  direction,  stands  the  strange  imaginative  Standish 
James  O'Grady.  The  latest  of  the  great  scholar  trans- 
lators, Kuno  Meyer,  is  a  German,  who,  by  his  own  work 
and  that  of  his  disciples,  has  added  wealth  of  matter  and 
grace  of  manner  to  the  new  literature. 


64  LITERATURE   IN    IRELAND. 


VI. 

THE  IRISH  MODE. 

EVERY  syllable  of  a  word  has  a  vowel  and  may  have  one 
consonant  or  more.  The  vowel  may  have  a  short  sound, 
as  "  u  "  in  "  nut  "  or  a  long  sound,  as  "o"  in  "note.'*  A 
syllable  may  be  stressed  or  unstressed,  the  stress  de- 
pending on  the  pronunciation  of  the  word,  or,  in  the  case 
of  a  monosyllable,  on  the  meaning  of  the  sentence  in  which 
it  is  placed  In  the  classical  languages,  which  had  a 
full  inflexional  system  and  could  in  consequence  indicate 
meaning  without  the  same  use  of  word  order  that  English 
has,  we  may  take  it  that  stress  had  no  real  place,  either 
formative  or  combative,  in  the  making  of  verse  Their 
metric  was  founded  on  the  rhythm  of  long  and  short 
syllables — quantity.  This  system,  in  the  case  of  Latin, 
was  an  adoption,  but  was  none  the  less  rigid.  In  English, 
metrical  quantity  proper  does  not  exist,  though  English 
verse  uses  for  a  grace  all  the  varieties  of  vowels,  short 
and  long,  and  of  consonants  and  consonant  combinations, 
quick  and  slow,  light  and  heavy.  The  recurrence  of 
stress  marks  the  rhythm.  The  voice  is  capable  of  uttering, 


THE    IRISH    MODE.  65 

at  one  "  pressure,"  up  to  three  syllables  but  not  more. 
That  is,  between  two  stressed  syllables  there  may  be  no 
unstressed,  one  unstressed  or  two  unstressed  syllables. 
If,  as  in  the  case  of  such  words  as  "  superfluous  "  or 
"  memorial,"  more  than  three  syllables  seem  to  be  uttered 
at  one  voice-pressure,  it  will  be  found  that  there  is  either 
elision,  as  in  " — uous"  of  "superfluous"  (if  pronounced 
superfluous)  or  the  introduction  of  a  consonantal  yod 
sound,  as  in  "  — ial  "  of  "memorial"  (memory  al). 

English  verse,  then,  is  accentual,  a  rhythm  of  stressed 
and  unstressed  syllables.  Irish  verse  is  also  accentual ; 
but  there  is  this  occasional  difference,  that  while  what 
may  be  called  central  English  verse,  in  order  to  emphasise 
the  stressed,  under-emphasises  the  unstressed,  Irish 
frequently  allows  for  the  clear  pronunciation  of  several 
syllables  between  stress  and  stress.  Such  Irish  verse  is 
not  rigidly  governed  by  the  law  of  mono-pressures  ;  it 
is  generally  found  in  songs,  the  tunes  of  which  have  a 
good  deal  to  do  with  drawing  the  metrical  feet  dancing 
out  of  their  bars.  This  less  pronounced  hammering  of 
the  stressed  syllables  is  more  noticeable  in  Irish  prose 
speech  ;  and  on  account  of  it  English  as  we  speak  it  in 
Ireland  has  a  much  more  deliberate  way  of  pronun- 
ciation, a  much  more  even  intonation,  than  the  English  of 
the  English.  One  of  the  ablest  living  English  metrists,  Mr 
T.  S.  Omond,  complained  some  time  ago,  in  a  letter  to  the 


66  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

writer,  that  he  could  not  make  out  the  metre  of  a  poem 
beginning  with  the  doggerel  lines  : 

"  I  once  spent  an  evening  in  a  village 
Where  the  people  are  all  taken  up  with  tillage." 

An  Irish  reader  would  be  content  to  pronounce  the 
words  as  they  come,  to  read  the  lines  as  prose  reads  : 

"  I  once  spent  an  evening  in    a  village  where  the 
people  are  all  taken  up  with  tillage/' 

not  at  all  hurrying  over  or  slurring  "  spent,"     — ening," 
"  taken,"  and  not  over-stressing  "  in  "  and  "up." 

Two  examples  from  different  stages  of  Anglo-Irish 
literature  will  illustrate  this  tendency  of  our  poetry.  The 
reading  of  the  first  we  know  from  its  whimsical  tune  : 

"  The  town  of  Passage 
Is  both  wide  and  spacious 
And  situated  upon  the  sea, 
'Tis  neat  and  decent 
And  quite  contagious 
To  go  to  Cork  on  a  bright  summer's  day." 

The  last  line  of  this  verse  is  always  sung  in  such  a  way 
as  to  be  almost  spoken  with  rapid  and  even  enunciation  of 
all  the  syllables.  The  effect  may  be  got  by  reading  the 
line  with  little  or  no  stress  on  the  words,  "go,"  "  Cork," 
"  bright,"  "  day."  In  the  song  this  effect  adds  to  the 
drollery  of  the  words  and  the  tune. 


THE    IRISH    MODE.  67 

Very  different  is  the  well  known  Lake  Isle  of  Inishfree 
of  W.  B.  Yeats  : 

"  I  will  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree, 
And  a  small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay  and  wattles  made  ; 
Nine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive  for  the  honey 

bee, 
And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 

And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there,  for  peace  comes 

dropping  slow, 
Dropping  from  the  veils  of  the  morning  to  where  the 

cricket  sings  ; 

There  midnight's  all  a  glimmer,  and  noon  a  purple  glow, 
And  evening  full  of  the  linnet's  wings. 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always  night  and  day 
I  hear  lake  water  lapping  with  low  sounds  by  the  shore  ; 
While  I  stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the  pavements 


I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core." 

In  the  line 

"  And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there,  for  peace  comes 
dropping  slow/' 

it  would  be  as  wrong  to  mark,  as  heavily  stressed,  the 
syllables    "  I,"   "  some,"  "  there,"  as  to  scan  it  : 

"  And  I  |  shall  have  |  some  peace  |  there   ..." 
as  some  English  metrists  might  read  it. 


68  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND. 

Take  the  line  frankly  as  if  it  were  a  line  of  prose,  only 
with  that  beauty  of  vibration  in  the  voice  that  goes  with 
the  fine  grave  words  of  poetry.  (It  is  impossible  to 
mark  the  reading  by  punctuation  or  the  like).  Read  it 
so,  and  you  will  understand  the  true  quality  of  this  mode 
in  Anglo-Irish  poetry  It  is  wrong  to  scan  this  verse, 
to  cut  off  the  syllables  according  to  the  measure  of  a 
rhythm  that  rises  and  falls  sharply  and  regularly.  Even 
with  some  marks  to  indicate  that  though  unstressed,  a 
syllable  is  slow  and  long  : 

"  And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there 

the  scansion  is  wrong.  There  is  a  recurrence  in  this 
verse,  but  it  is  not  the  recurrence  of  the  foot.  I  have 
been  able  to  take  half  a  line  to  illustrate  my  meaning. 
The  first  three  lines  of  each  stanza  have  a  cesura  in  the 
middle.  I  believe  that  that  is  the  only  division  to  make 
in  them,  and  that  as  a  rule  open  to  exception  In 
general  the  second  part  of  the  line  has  a  more  obvious 
recurrence  of  stress  than  the  first,  as  : 

"      .     .         of  clay  and  wattles  made." 

Of  course,  as  in  all  musical  verse,  there  are  contrasts, 
exceptional  first  half  lines  that  run  with  a  regular  scan- 
nible  rhythm,  and  exceptional  second  half  lines  like  : 

"  .  with  low  sounds  on  the  shore." 


THE    IRISH    MODE.  69 

This  general  movement,  changing  from  a  slow  beat  to 
an  easy  rise  and  fall,  happens  constantly.  I  sometimes 
think  it  expresses,  whether  in  accentual  verse  or  quan- 
titative, the  mingled  emotion  of  unrest  and  pleasure  that 
comes  with  the  break  up  of  winter,  with  the  south  wind, 
with  the  thought  of  the  shortness  of  life  and  the  need 
to  make  haste  to  explore  its  good  and  simple  joys — the 
desire  to  leave  the  unlovely,  mingled  with  a  vivid  concep- 
tion of  the  land  of  heart's  desire.  It  is  the  rhythm  of 
that  fourth  ode  of  Horace's  first  book.  In  the  long  lines 
the  four  solemn  bars,  dactyls  or  spondees,  are  followed 
by  three  light  trochaic  feet ;  and  the  short  lines,  after 
the  unrest  of  one  syllable  taken  alone,  continue  the 
movement : 

Solvitur  acris  hiemps   grata  vice   veris    et   Favoni, 
trahuntque   siccas  machines  carinas ; 

ac  neque  iam  stabulis  gaudet  pecus  aut  arator  igni, 
nee  prata   canis  albicant  pruinis. 

The  system  is  : 


It  would  be  possible  to  treat  the  second  line  taken  above 
as  iambic,  but,  considering  the  dactyls  and  trochees  in 
the  first,  it  must  be  read  as  trochaic. 

It  may  be  objected  that  owing  to  the  utter  difference 
between  accentual  and  quantitative  verse,  it  is  wrong 


70  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND. 

to  apply  these  remarks  to  the  two.  I  have  elsewhere 
drawn  attention  to  the  difference,  for  instance,  between 
the  dactyl  (quantitative)  and  the  triple  falling  accentual 
measure  of  "  merrily/'  This  difference  does  not  affect 
the  similarity  between  the  contrast  of  first  half  line  and 
the  second  half  line  in  both  Inishfree  and  this  ode  of 
Horace's,  For  the  rest,  a  rhythm  may  be  produced 
not  only  in  music,  in  noise,  in  words  and  in  other  things 
heard,  but  in  things  seen  and  things  felt.  And  not  merely 
the  words  of  verse  express  the  emotion.  In  true  poetry, 
as  the  meaning  of  the  words  comes  second  to  their  rhythm, 
and  the  rhythm  expresses  an  emotion,  it  will  be  found  that 
the  words  mean  the  expression  of  this  emotion  as  well 
as  the  rhythm. 

To  read  correctly  Anglo-Irish  poetry  one  must  follow 
either  Irish  music  or  Anglo-Irish  prose  speech.  My 
earliest  conscious  observation,  and  notation,  so  to  call  it, 
of  this  speech  was  in  Cork  city  about  ten  years  ago.  In 
the  house  at  which  I  stayed  there  were  two  children. 
One  was  continually  looking  for  the  other  and  calling  all 
over  the  house.  "  Is  Maudie  in  the  garden  ?  "  Jimmy 
would  chant  in  a  most  wonderfully  sweet  voice,  lingering 
on  every  syllable.  Later  I  was  delighted  to  note,  when 
living  in  a  little  mountain  lodge  above  Rathfarnham  in 
County  Dublin,  that  a  blackbird  which  came  to  wake  me 
every  morning  in  the  spring  sang  just  the  notes  of  Jimmy's 


THE   IRISH    MODE.  JI 

chant — a  blackbird  with  a  Cork  accent.  One  need  not 
think  that  Jimmy  was  guilty  of  that  sin  of  childhood 
never  committed  by  the  Anglo-Saxon  Saint  Guthlac, 
who  "  did  not  imitate  the  various  cries  of  birds."  Jimmy 
was  not  peculiar  in  his  accent. 

In  such  instances  song  and  speech  are  not  far  apart ; 
and  Mr.  Yeats,  for  all  his  want  of  musical  ear,  owes,  I 
believe,  this  peculiar  musical  quality  of  his  early  verse 
.to  that  Irish  chant  which  at  once  saves  Irish  speech  from 
too  definite  a  stress  and  from  an  utterance  too  monotonous 
and  harsh. 

At  the  same  time  one  must  not  deduce  from  all  this  that 
Gaelic  verse  is  a  footless  thing  of  sinuous  windings. 
Nothing  could  be  more  clearly  marked  than  most  Gaelic 
measures.  And  these  too  have  had  their  effect  on  Anglo- 
Irish  verse.  To  do  Mr.  Yeats  justice,  since  I  have 
quoted  from  him  to  show  the  serpent,  I  shall  now  quote, 
to  show  the  eagle,  the  Musicians'  song  from  Deirdre : 

FIRST  MUSICIAN. 

'  Why  is  it,'  Queen  Edain  said, 

'  If  I  do  but  climb  the  stair 
To  the  tower   overhead, 

When  the  winds  are  calling  there, 
Or  the  gannets  calling  out, 

In  waste  places  of  the  sky, 
There's  so  much  to  think  about, 

That  I  cry,  that  I  cry  ? ' 


72  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

SECOND   MUSICIAN. 

But  her  goodman  answered  her  : 

'  Love  would  be  a  thing  of  naught 
Had  not  all  his  limbs  a  stir 

Born  out  of  immoderate  thought ; 
Were  he  anything  by  half, 

Were  his  measure  running  dry. 
Lovers,  if  they  may  not  laugh, 

Have  to  cry,  have  to  cry.' 

THREE  MUSICIANS  (together). 

But  is  Edain  worth  a  song 

Now  the  hunt  begins  anew  ? 
Praise  the  beautiful  and  strong  ; 

Praise  the  redness  of  the  yew  ; 
Praise  the  blossoming  apple-stem. 

But  our  silence  had  been  wise. 
What  is  all  our  praise  to  them, 

That  have  one  another's  eyes  ?  " 

This  poem  is  really  syllabic,  seven  syllables  to  the  line, 
like  one  species  of  Debhidhe  poems  in  Irish — without,  of 
course,  the  arrangements  of  assonance.  I  do  not  know 
if  Mr.  Yeats  is  aware  of  this  syllabic  measure  ;  but  again 
and  again  in  his  poems  and  in  the  poems  of  many  con- 
temporary Irishmen  I  find  this  tendency.  Indeed  I  should 
say  that  the  effects  of  our  more  deliberate  Irish  speech 
on  our  verse  are  these  two  :  first,  a  prose  intonation, 
not  monotonous,  being  saved  by  the  natural  rise  and 
fall  of  the  voice,  a  remnant  of  the  ancient  pitch — a  quality, 


THE    IRISH    MODE.  73 

as  it  were,  of  chanted  speech — and  second,  a  tendency 
to  give,  in  certain  poems,  generally  of  short  riming  lines, 
almost  equal  stress  value  to  all  the  syllables,  a  tendency 
to  make  the  line  the  metrical  unit.  From  the  first  of  these 
effects  comes  a  more  reasoning,  not  to  say  conversational 
tone,  which  disallows  inversions,  quaint  words  and  turns 
of  speech.  Not  conforming  in  our  way  of  verse  to  the 
regular  English  stress  rhythm  we  have  not  the  same 
necessity  as  the  English  poets  to  depart  from  the  natural 
word  order.  We  have  not  to  manufacture  a  rhythm  in 
that  unnatural  way,  I  take  up  the  first  book  of  verse 
to  my  hand,  the  poems  of  William  Drummond  of  Haw- 
thornden,  Ben  Johnson's  friend.  The  first  poem  I  open, 
the  lovely  Phoebus  Arise,  does  not  afford  good  examples 
of  poetic  inversions.  The  lines,  varying  in  length,  go  on 
their  way  freely.  The  last  three  lines  are  a  little  flat  by 
comparison  with  the  rest : 

'  The  clouds  bespangle  with  bright  gold  their  blue  ; 
Here  is  the  pleasant  place, 
And  everything,  save  Her,  who  all  should  grace." 

These  lines  are  a  "  regularisation  "  of  the  three  that 
ended  the  poem  in  the  earlier  edition  : 

"  The  clouds  with  orient  gold  spangle  their  blue  ; 
Here  is  the  pleasant  place — 
And  nothing  wanting  is,  save  She,  alas  !  " 


74  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

The  reasons  for  the  changes  are  apparent,  as  is  the  loss  of 
beauty.  But  how  could  the  poet  have  conceived  the 
fear  that  anyone  would  try  to  read  "  spangle  "  with  a 
stress  on  the  second  syllable,  and  to  such  a  fear  sacrificed 
his  "  orient  gold." 

The  sonnet  beginning  "  I  know  that  all  beneath  the 
moon  decays,"  which  follows  Phoebus  Arise  in  my 
edition,  will  serve  me  better  with  examples  Lines 
like 

"  And  that  nought  is  more  light  than  airy  praise  ; 
or 

"  But  that,  O  me  !  I  must  both  write  and  love," 

would  be  read  without  difficulty  and  without  that  danger 
of  wrong  emphasis  which  Drummond  seems  to  have 
feared.* 

His  lines  are  : 

"  And  that  nought  lighter  is  than  airy  praise  ;  " 
and 

"  But  that,  O  me  !    I  both  must  write  and  love." 

*An  editor  has  declared  himself  in  doubt  as  to  whether 
Drummond  was  a  poet  whose  inspiration  was  marred  by 
learning  or  a  scholar  who  owed  his  literary  success  to  study. 
Anyone  who  has  read  his  work  will  know  a  true  poet  in  it. 
The  pity  is  that  he  was  not  more  learned,  as  learned  as  Milton, 
say,  whose  verse  he  anticipates — learned  enough  to  know 
that  true  liberty  is  separated  from  licence  by  law,  not  sand- 
wiched between  the  two. 


THE    IRISH   MODE.  75 

The  freedom  of  Irish  writers  from  these  inversions  and 
from  kindred  artificialities  and  the  resultant  colloquial 
naturalness  may  also,  as  I  have  suggested,  have  to  do 
with  the  newness  of  the  English  language  here,  with  the 
fact  that  the  people,  whose  speech  is  echoed  in  these 
poems,  have  no  literary  memories  in  English,  that  we 
are  still  at  the  simple  beginnings,  that  our  literature  is 
still  at  lyric  babblings.  However  that  may  be,  I  am 
sure  that  the  Irish  writers  are  more  direct,  more  modern, 
than  such  writers  as  Robert  Bridges,  Henry  Newbolt 
and  William  Watson,  on  whom  have  fallen  the  mantles 
of  older  English  writers,  or  at  least  who  fill  their  shoes 

I  go  for  examples  to  the  Oxford  Book  of  English 
Verse.  I  take,  as  I  am  seeking  natural  diction,  a  poem 
with  a  story  and  the  living  words  of  a  modern  man,  an 
excellent  poem,  Newbolt's  He  Fell  among  Thieves. 

"  'Ye  have  robb'd,'  said  he,   '  ye    have    slaughtered 

and  made  an  end, 

Take  your  ill-got  plunder,  and  bury  the  dead, 
What  will  ye  more  of  your  guest  and  sometime 

friend  ? ' 
'  Blood  for  our  blood,'  they  said." 

The  diction  of  this,  more  especially  in  view  of  the 
admirably  direct  narrative  in  the  stanzas  that  follow,  is 
stilted  and  wrong.  That  phrase,  "  made  an  end,"  and 
the  whole  third  line  are  born  of  pen  and  ink.  Not  so, 


76  LITERATURE   IN    IRELAND. 

though  it  is  not  yet  common  colloquial  diction,  is  the 
language  of  Mangan's  version  of  O'Hussey's  Ode  to  the 
Maguire — to  go  back  seventy  years  : 

"  Though  he  were  even  a  wolf  ranging  the  round  green 

woods, 
Though  he  were  even  a  pleasant  salmon  in  the  un- 

chainable  sea, 
Though  he  were  a  wild  mountain  eagle,  he  could 

scarce  bear,  he, 
This  sharp,  sore  sleet,  these  howling  floods. 

Oh,  mournful  is  my  soul  this  night  for  Hugh  Maguire  ; 
Darkly  as  in  a  dream  he  strays  !     Before  him  and 

behind 

Triumphs  the  tyrannous  anger  of  the  wounding  wind, 
The  wounding  wind,  that  burns  as  fire  ! 

Hugh  marched  forth  to  the  fight — I  grieved  to  see 

him  so  depart ; 
And  lo  !    to-night  he  wanders  frozen,  rain-drenched 

sad,  betrayed — 
But   the   memory   of  the   lime-white   mansions   his 

right  hand  hath  laid 
In  ashes,  warms  the  hero's  heart." 

O'Hussey  is  not  a  modern  man,  yet  though  Mangan 
gives  him  words  and  phrases  that  were  scarcely  ever 
colloquial,  he  gives  him  a  natural  directness  that  goes 
with  emphatic  speech  all  the  world  over,  at  all  times. 
If  this  comparison  be  unjust,  it  is  so  rather  to  Mangan's 


THE    IRISH    MODE.  77 

bard  than  to  the  Anglo-Indian  with  his  revolver.  I  have 
quoted  these  two  poems  for  another  purpose  than  the 
comparison  of  diction.  Newbolt's  poem  has  lines  like— 

"  He  did  not  see  the  starlight  on   the    Laspur  hills," 

which,  contrasting  with  the  beat  of  the  regular  lines, 
has  something  of  the  unstressed  movement  so  often 
found  in  Irish  poems.  Here,  one  may  take  it,  it  comes 
naturally  in  the  enumeration  of  scenes  and  sounds,  as 
an  escape  and  relief.  Mangan's  rhythms  are  much 
subtler,  much  deeper  and  more  resonant ;  his  escape, 
as  in  the  second  of  the  stanzas  quoted,  is  from  precipitate 
half  unmeasured  music  to  a  regular  tolling. 

For  another  parallel  to  the  passage  from  Newbolt 
I  take  a  typical  passage  from  a  typical  Irish  writer  of 
narrative  poems,  Alice  Milligan  : 

"  '  If  I  was  home  at  all/ 

She  is  musing  now,  '  I  would  go  that  way  to-night, 
I  would  walk  that  way  alone  in  the  care  of  God, 
All  doors  are  shut  and  no  one  comes  abroad 
Because  they  think  the  souls  are  out  to-night ; 
So  in  the  windows  they  set  the  candles  three 
To  let  the  wanderers  know,  '  We  pray  for  ye 
And  love  ye  yet,  but  would  look  on  ye  with  dread 
Returning  from  the  dead.'  ' 

The  inversion  "  candles  three  "  is  the  only  forced  phrase 
in  this  . 


78  LITERATURE   IN    IRELAND. 

Syllabic  verse,  riming  or  assonating,  develops,  I  think, 
internal  rimes  and  the  riming  of  monosyllables  with  the 
last  syllables  of  long  words  Of  course  the  rules  of  rimes 
and  the  rest  were  never  arbitrary  They  were  discovered. 
They  are  "  nature  methodised."  The  rimes  are  as 
accidental  as  anything  in  such  a  matter  can  be.  The 
grace  occurs  first  by  that  accident  of  the  wind  blowing 
where  it  listeth  ;  and  then,  being  observed,  the  grace  is 
sought  again.  In  Old  Irish,  syllabic  verse  reached  great 
perfection  I  give  as  an  example  the  first  stanza  of  a 
poem  written  by  a  monk,  a  scribe,  of  his  cat : 

Messe  ocus  Pangur  ban 
cecthar  nathar  fria  saindan  ; 
bith  a  menma-sain  fri  seilgg 
mu  menma  cein  im  saincheirdd. 

It  will  be  observed  that  the  lines  are  all  of  seven  syl- 
lables, that  the  first  and  third  end  in  monosyllables  and 
the  second  and  fourth,  riming  with  them  in  couplets,  in 
words  of  two  syllables.  The  constant  rule  in  this 
particular  kind  of  verse  was  that  the  second  riming  word 
should  be  a  syllable  longer  than  the  first. 

That  is  enough  here  about  that  wonderfully  intricate 
thing,  Gaelic  versification.  I  leave  it  all  the  more  wil- 
lingly at  this,  as  a  certain  over-insistence  on  its  rarity 
has  led  many  to  think  it  the  only  virtue  of  Gaelic  poetry. 
That  such  is  not  the  case  can  be  seen  by  anyone  who 


THE    IRISH    MODE.  79 

reads,  even  in  unadorned  prose  translation,  poems  like  the 
dialogue  between  the  King  and  the  Hermit  or  Finn's  Song 
of  Summer  or  the  Lament  of  the  Old  Woman  of  Beare. 

Next  to  the  effects  of  Gaelic  metre  and  of  modern 
Anglo-Irish  speech  comes  the  effect  of  Irish  music.* 
The  characteristic  rhythms  of  Irish  music  are  noticeable 
everywhere  in  the  lyrics  of  the  Irish  Mode.  In  a  poem 
like  Ferguson's  Fairy  Thorn  one  can  hear  the  notes  of 
the  dancing  air — in  the  first  stanza  the  beating  of  the  feet 
to  the  music. 

Note  the  different  effect — the  swaying  with  the  wild 
sweet  twist  of  the  song — in  such  poems  as  The  Outlaw 
of  Loch  Lene  and  Ferguson's  translation,  Pashteen 
Finn.  I  remember  once  hearing  this  latter  song  sung 
in  Irish  by  a  large  number  of  people  in  the  South  of 
Ireland.  The  singers  swayed  their  heads  slightly  in  a 
slow,  drowsy  way  ;  and  the  song  went  on  through  its  full 
length,  verses  and  chorus,  without  a  break.  When  I 
read  the  poem  now,  the  original  or  Ferguson's  version, 
I  find  in  it — read  into  it  perhaps — that  continuous  swaying. 
In  the  same  way  my  reading  of  Loch  Lene  is  affected  by 
the  way  in  which  the  air  to  the  third  line  refuses  to  stop 
at  the  end,  but  having  taken  breath  on  the  penultimate 
syllable  hurries  without  a  pause  into  the  next  phrase. 

*On  the  subject  of  music  and  metre,  see  the  author's  Thomas 
Campion  and  the  Art  of  English  Poetry,  Chapter  VII. 


80  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND. 

So  with  a  great  number  of  Irish  poems  and  of  Anglo-Irish 
translations,  imitations  and  original  poems  in  that  mode. 
We  hear  through  them  that  music  of  our  own.  I  am  no 
exception — who  can  be  ?  Here  as  I  sit  writing  this  on 
a  morning  of  spring,  in  a  place  under  the  jurisdiction  of 
the  Dublin  Corporation,  in  a  garden  full  of  flowers  and 
thrushes,  a  boy  is  passing  on  the  other  side  of  my  garden 
wall  whistling  a  gay  rambling  Irish  dance  tune.  There 
are  words  to  that  tune.  I  do  not  know  them  ;  but  I 
know  that,  Irish  or  English,  they  have  that  rambling  way 
with  them.  I  know  too  that  some  poet  who  hears  that 
tune  to-day  or  to-morrow  is  likely  to  be  so  haunted  by  the 
rhythm  of  it  that  he  will  lay  the  ghost  of  it  by  singing 
a  song  to  it. 

The  earlier  Anglo-Irish  poets  in  whose  work  this  mode 
is  most  obvious  are  Mangan  and  Ferguson.  In  recent 
times  almost  everyone  who  has  written  songs  and  lyrics 
has  it  somewhere  or  other ,  It  cannot  be  attributed 
altogether  to  the  actual  music.  Several  masters  of  it 
have  no  ear  for  music  proper,  but  this,  I  believe,  means 
only  that  while  deaf  to  the  tone  of  the  notes  they  are 
keenly  sensible  of  the  rhythm.  As  Coventry  Patmore  has 
remarked,  the  tattoo  of  a  knuckle  upon  the  table  will 
lose  most,  if  not  all,  of  its  rhythm  if  transferred  to  a  bell. 
"  The  drum,"  he  says,  "  gives  rhythm,  but  the  clear  note 
of  the  triangle  is  nothing  without  another  instrument, 


THE    IRISH    MODE.  8 1 

because  it  does  not  admit  of  an  imagined  variation."* 
With  these  tune-deaf  poets  the  imagined  variation  may 
exist  in  a  piece  of  music  as  in  the  rattle  of  a  railway 
train. 

The  most  valuable  and  characteristic  contribution  to 
verse  made  by  the  Anglo-Irish  poets,  by  Moore,  Mangan, 
Ferguson,  Hyde,  Yeats  and  all,  has  been  a  contribution 
of  melody,  a  music  that  at  once  expresses  and  evokes 
emotion.  In  the  whole  body  of  their  literature  you  find 
scarcely  a  true  poem  which,  in  the  words  of  the  book 
reviewers,  treats  adequately  a  serious  subject.  Of  course 
this  may  be  said  of  the  purely  lyric  poets  of  all  ages  and 
countries  It  is  the  epic  and  dramatic  poets,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  didactic,  who  write  formal  addresses  to 
Light  and  to  the  Sun,  who  discuss  at  length  the  question 
of  immortality,  to  be  or  not  to  be,  the  question  of  medicine 
for  a  mind  diseased.  Allusions  to  all  these  you  will  find 
in  the  Irish  lyric — more  than  that,  sudden  illuminations, 
that  illumination  of  knowledge  which  again  is  one  of  the 
marks  of  the  true  poet — imbas  forosna. 

'  Three  things  through  love  I  see  ; 
Sorrow  and  sin  and  death, — 
And  my  mind  reminding  me 

That  this  doom  I  breathe  with  my  breath. 

*See  the  author's  Thomas  Campion  and  the  Art  of  English 
Poetry,  Chapter  VI. 


82  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

But  sweeter  than  violin  or  lute 

Is  my  love — and  she  left  me  behind 

I  wish  that  all  music  were  mute, 
And  I  to  all  beauty  were  blind." 

When  Irish  poets  write  the  new  epics  of  this  nation 
and  the  new  poetic  drama  of  the  coming  years,  we 
shall,  no  doubt,  have  plenty  of  those  treatments  of 
serious  subjects.  At  present  a  search  for  the  like  would 
bring  us  only  the  moralizings  of  poetasters,  the  obvious 
and  the  devious,  the  things  so  plainly  seen  in  our  path 
that  they  do  not  need  description  or  indication,  or  so  out 
of  the  way,  so  far-fetched,  that  they  recall  nothing  in  our 
experience. 


VII. 
THE  LYRIC  OF  THE  IRISH  MODE. 

FOR  the  present  the  best  poetry  of  the  Irish  Mode  that 
we  can  find  is  in  lyric  form,  the  expression  of  the  individual 
emotion.  Worth  notice  in  connection  with  this  are  the 
frequent  fine  use  and  the  frequent  misuse  of  the  dramatic 
lyric  form.  The  form  is  almost  as  old  in  Ireland  as 
poetry  itself,  but  only  modernly,  I  think,  has  it  had  the 
intense  human  thrill  of  individual  subtle  character  Early 
Irish  poems  of  this  sort  are  more  direct ;  they  often  begin 
with  the  simple  announcement  of  the  speaker's  name, 
and  then  tell  in  those  vivid  nervous  lines  of  the  dan 
direach  clear  and  simple  thoughts  of  passion  or  emotion- 
poems  that  translate  so  literally  into  all  languages  that 
they  appear  almost  too  simple.  The  monologue  of 
Eve  published  in  Eriu  by  Dr.  Meyer  is  a  good  example 
of  this  : 

Me  Eba  ben  Adaimh  uill, 
Me  roshdirigh  losa  ihall, 
Me  rothall  nemh  ar  mo  chloinn, 
Coir  is  me  dochoidh  's  a  crand. 


84  LITERATURE   IN    IRELAND. 

Roba  lem  rightegh  dom  reir, 
Olc  in  mithoga  romthdr, 
Olc  in  cose  cinad  romchrin, 
For'ir !    ni  hiodan  mo  lamh. 

Nz  biadh  eighredh  in  gach  du, 
Ni  biadh  geimreadh  gaothmar  git, 
NzJ)iadh  iffern,  ni  biadh  bron, 
Ni  biadh  omun,  minbadh  me. 

"  I  am  Eve,  great  Adam's  wife, 
I  that  wrought  my  children's  loss, 
I  that  wronged  Jesus  of  life, 
Mine  by  right  had  been  the  cross. 

I  a  kingly  house  forsook  : 
111  my  choice  and  my  disgrace  : 
111  the  counsel  that  I  took, 
Withering  me  and  all  my  race. 

I  that  brought  the  winter  in, 
And  the  windy,  glistening  sky  : 
I  that  brought  terror  and  sin, 

Hell  and  pain  and  sorrow,  I. 

!»* 

No  poem  of  just  that  dramatic  nature  is  to  be  found  in 
any  collection  of  Anglo-Irish  poetry,  in  any  such  antho- 

*I  quote  and  translate  the  first,  second  and  fourth  stanzas  : 
my  translation  is  very  close  to  the  original.  To  indicate  a 
departure  I  translate  literally  the  last  three  lines  :  "  There 
would  not  be  winter,  windy,  clear,  there  would  not  be  hell, 
there  would  not  be  sorrow,  there  would  not  be  terror,  were 
not  I." 


THE   LYRIC   OF   THE   IRISH   MODE.  85 

logy  as  The  Dublin  Book  of  Irish  Verse,  1728-1909. 
In  the  first  part  of  the  book  there  is  indeed  no  poem  at 
all  resembling  it.  This  dramatic  lyric  has  had  to  evolve 
again  in  Ireland  in  this  new  poetry  of  the  foreign  tongue  ; 
something  of  it  has  come  with  the  language  in  which  it  is 
now  written,  something  from  the  Irish  through  translation 
and  transmission. 

The  opening  poem  of  the  Dublin  Book  is  Goldsmith's 
'  When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly  "  In  his  book 
on  Browning,  Mr.  G.  K.  Chesterton  has  an  apt  note  on 
this  :  "In  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  two  poems,  each 
of  them  extremely  well  known,  are  placed  side  by  side  ; 
and  their  juxtaposition  represents  one  vast  revolution  in 
the  poetical  manner  of  looking  at  things.  The  first  is 
Goldsmith's  almost  too  well  known  When  lovely  Woman 
Stoops  to  Folly.  Immediately  after  comes,  with  a 
sudden  and  thrilling  change  of  note,  the  voice  of  Burns — 
Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon.  They  are  two 
poems  on  exactly  the  same  subject,  and  the  whole  differ- 
ence is  this  fundamental  difference,  that  Goldsmith's 
words  are  spoken  about  a  certain  situation  and  Burns' 
words  are  spoken  in  that  situation."  Such  too  in  general 
is  the  contrast  between  the  poems  of  this  representative 
anthology  of  Anglo-Irish  verse  and  the  poems  at  the 
end.  The  younger  poets  are  personal,  their  poems  are 
things  "  felt  in  the  blood  "  ;  their  poems  are  not  merely 


86  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

poetical  songs  ;  they  sing  out  of  the  heart  of  the  situation. 
And  it  is  with  this  very  merit  that  the  fault  comes,  the 
abuse  of  personal,  something  which  misses  the  justifi- 
cation of  exuberance  at  its  extreme,  something  which  is 
too  literally  expressed  to  be  other  than  literal,  and  which, 
if  literal,  is  untrue.  Within  my  limits  it  is  impossible 
without  injustice  to  deal  with  evident  examples  In  spite 
of  all  qualifications  I  should  seem  to  generalise,  to  con- 
demn some  authors  of  this  as  a  constant  fault.  So  I  go 
outside  and  to  the  past  for  an  example  of  my  meaning, 
and  take  a  well-known  English  poem,  that  most  frequently 
quoted  of  W  E.  Henley's  : 

"  Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 

Black  as  the  pit  from  pole  to  pole, 
I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 

In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 
I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud, 

Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbow'd. 

Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 
Looms   but  the   horror   of  the  shade, 

And  yet  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds,  and  shall  find  me,  unafraid. 

It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 
How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 

I  am  the  master  of  my  fate, 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul." 


THE   LYRIC   OF   THE   IRISH   MODE.  87 

This  to  many  readers  seems  the  cry  of  a  strong  man 
"  in  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance  "  ;  and  when  they 
know  of  the  poet's  sufferings  and  refer  this  to  his  actual 
life  they  admire  it  the  more.  I  have  talked  with  some 
who  knew  Henley,  and  know  that  they  regarded  him  as 
a  strong  man  with  a  great  personality.  But  the  poem, 
full  of  fine  phrases  and  all  as  it  is,  is  wrong  and  unworthy 
of  a  great  personality — the  poem  thus  personal,  thus 
autobiographical  in  form,  thus  boastful.  The  poem, 
whether  directly  personal  or  dramatic,  rings  false.  The 
strong  man  is  strong  in  character  and  conduct,  not 
braggart  in  words  If  he  claim  for  himself  such  courage 
and  self-reliance,  it  is  by  way  of  protest  and  denial  to  one 
who  has  doubted  these  things  in  him.  But  a  protest 
addressed  to  the  unseen,  unheard  God — to  "  whatever 
gods  may  be" — is  vain,  not  meant  to  be  heard  by  ears 
divine,  but  to  be  over-heard  by  human.  It  becomes 
the  boast  of  a  vain  man,  useless  so  made.  The  poem  I 
believe  to  be  the  work  of  a  weak,  conventional,  self- 
flattering  mood  of  the  poet's  And  it  might  have  been 
so  good  a  poem  in  another  form,  a  tribute  so  splendid 
if  written  of  another  man,  so  fine  an  honour  to  the  poet 
himself  as  man  and  poet ! 

"  In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 

He  had  not  winced,  nor  cried  aloud, 
Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
His  head  was  bloody,  but  unbow'd. 


88  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND. 

It  mattered  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  fraught  with  punishments  the  scroll, 

He  was  the  master  of  his  fate, 
He  was  the  captain  of  his  soul." 

So  in  some  of  the  dramatic  lyrics  of  our  younger 
Irish  authors  the  statement  as  of  personal  experience 
and  of  personal  feeling  spoils  the  sincerity  or  at  least 
spoils  our  pleasure.  I  would  not  be  taken  as  denying  in 
any  way  the  claim  of  the  dramatic  lyric  and  the  dramatic 
monologue  to  the  justification  of  imaginative  Tightness. 
The  poetic  is  rarely  identical  with  the  personal  ego. 
Good  poetry  is  rarely,  if  ever,  an  exact  copy.  Intuition 
gives  more  to  a  poem  than  the  record  of  actual  experience. 
The  potential  lover,  if  he  may  be  called  so,  or  the  potential 
vagabond,  being  a  poet,  will  write  as  fine  love  poems  or  as 
fine  wander  poems  as  the  lover  or  vagabond  of  experience. 
If  the  lover  or  vagabond  of  experience  do  write  fine 
poems  wrung  out  of  life,  still  the  imagination  is  more 
at  the  expense  of  them  than  anything  else — the  imagination 
and  the  interpretative  faculty.  For,  once  more,  poetry 
is  an  interpretation,  an  illumination,  and  not  a  narrative. 
It  recalls,  it  recollects  in  tranquillity,  it  suggests,  it  brings 
a  light,  it  brings  a  key.  Born  of  joy,  it  happily  and 
spontaneously  communicates  gladness.  Born  of  sorrow, 
it  raises  sorrow  to  the  crown  of  sorrow  through  sympathy, 
in  exultation.  Poetry  interprets  by  philosophy,  wisdom 


THE   LYRIC  OF  THE   IRISH   MODE.  89 

in  great  words  ;  by  knowledge  through  the  selection  of 
experience  ;  by  knowledge  through  the  gesture  of  life, 
dramatic  ;  by  knowledge  through  intuition  always,  the 
plenary  vision  ;  by  a  flash  of  expression  that  a  word  gives, 
that  a  rime  brings,  suggested  by  a  whim  of  the  mind, 
by  a  dream  of  the  night,  by  a  colour  in  the  sky,  by  an  air 
of  music,  by  a  mute  animal,  by  a  chance  word,  by  a  word 
half  heard,  by  a  word  misread,  by  a  mistranslation — 
suggested  by  such,  but  suggested  to  the  poet  who  is  the 
vates,  the  seer,  the  interpreter,  and  then  the  maker, 
the  poet  who  is  the  voice  of  his  time. 

Those  of  our  writers  who  bring  this  interpretation  to 
sincere  words,  narrative  or  dramatic,  will  be  the  voice  of 
this  time  ;  those  who  assume  tones  of  actual  record  and 
then  outrage  credence  will  be  no  such  thing. 

My  going  to  an  anthology  thus  for  examples  is  symp- 
tomatic of  our  critical  attitude  now.  Palgrave's  Golden 
Treasury  has  had  a  profound  effect  on  the  modern 
criticism  of  lyric  poetry.  But  in  the  anthologies  of  Anglo- 
Irish  verse  we  find  the  symptoms  of  another  thing — the 
futility  of  culling  and  choosing  yet.  We  have  now  two 
full-dress  anthologies,  the  Brooke-Rolleston  Treasury 
of  Irish  Poetry,  made  in  1900,  and  Mr.  John  Cooke's 
Dublin  Book,  1909,  just  mentioned.  In  addition  we 
have  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats'  Book  of  Irish  Verse,  a  per- 
sonal choice  rnade  in  1895,  now  very  inadequate,  and 


9O  LITERATURE   IN    IRELAND. 

Mr.    Padric    Gregory's    Modern    Irish    Poetry,  which 
includes  only  the  work  of  writers  of  the  present  day.     Let 
it  be  said  at  once  that  an  anthology  of  poetry,  especially 
a  large  anthology,  represents  the  average  man's  choice — 
not  that  the  compilation  is  in  general  the  work  of  the 
average   man,   but  that  it  is   prepared   for   such.     No 
anthology    can   absolutely   please    any  lover   of   poetry 
but  the  compiler,  and  him  only  for  a  time  ;   no  lover  of 
poetry  is  average.    Anthologies  are  of  two  kinds  ;    they 
are  either  books  of  poetry,  poems  chosen  purely  for  the 
poems'  sake,  "  the  best  though  a  hundred  critics  say  so," 
or  else  books  of  poets,  in  part  records  of  literary  history 
or  of  literary  development.     Mr.  Stopford  Brooke  in  his 
introduction  to  the  Brooke- Rolles ton  Treasury  of  Irish 
Poetry  claims  that  such  a  book  must  necessarily  be  of  the 
second  class.     "  When  the  book  was  first  projected  I 
wished  to  include  nothing  in  it  which  did  not  reach  a 
relatively  high  standard  of  excellence.     But  I  soon  dis- 
covered that  the  book  on  these  lines  would  not  represent 
the  growth  or  the  history  of  Irish  poetry  in  the  English 
language."     Similarly    Mr.    Cooke's    Dublin    Book    of 
Irish  Verse,  intended  to  be  final,  exhaustive  and  repre- 
sentative of  the  growth  of  Anglo-Irish  poetry,  must  be 
judged  by  this  standard.     Of  its  five  hundred  and  forty 
poems  there  are  less  than  a  hundred  that  I  should  include 
in  my  choice  of  the  purest  pure  ;    but  apart  from  that 


THE   LYRIC  OF  THE  IRISH   MODE.  91 

one  must  be  glad  that  Mr.  Cooke  has  included  a  host 
of  poems  that  have  other  claims — the  street  ballads  and 
the  humorous  songs  and  the  swinging  poems  of 
nationality.  The  book  is,  up  to  Douglas  Hyde  and  the 
older  living  writers — that  is,  as  far  as  any  book  can  be — 
final,  exhaustive  and  representative.  No  compiler  will 
again,  I  hope,  go  over  the  early  part  of  the  work  ;  that 
is  so  much  definitely  put  in  its  place,  and  for  that  reason 
so  much  done  for  the  future  as  well  as  for  the  past. 

No  such  justification  as  Mr.  Stopford  Brooke  has 
claimed  for  his  book  can  be  allowed  to  an  anthology  of 
contemporary  verse.  Yet  a  book  like  Mr.  Padric  Gregory's 
would  need  even  a  better  justification  for  its  existence. 
Poems  of  little  intrinsic  value  may  have  an  historic  value 
if  they  come  early  and  prove  to  be  originals  of  better  work 
later.  But  contemporary  poems  of  little  intrinsic  value 
should  have  no  value  to  the  anthologist.  Mr  Gregory 
has  three  worthless  poems  for  every  one  worthy  poem 
in  his  book,  and  so  has  failed  to  produce  the  good  book 
that  many  had  looked  for.  If  his  failure  be  a  warning  to 
others  and  save  us  for  a  time  from  anthologists,  it  may  be 
well  for  poetry.* 


*In  connection  with  this  subject  it  is  only  just  to  mention 
Miss  Eleanor  Hull's  Poem  Book  of  the  Gael,  a  volume  of  trans- 
lations from  the  Irish  done  by  many  hands.  Though  the 
book  is  full  of  faults,  and  some  of  Miss  Hull's  own  translations 


92  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

Poetry  does  not  bear  kindly  the  shackles  of  the  antho- 
logist :  criticism  is  wronged  by  him.  He  sets  up  a  stand- 
ard of  niceness.  He  sets  up  a  false  standard  of  clarity. 
For  the  clarity  of  prose  is  not  the  clarity  of  poetry  ;  and 
poets  must  not  be  struck  dumb  by  the  catch-cry,  obscurity. 
The  true  poet  will  not  indeed  be  struck  dumb  by  any 
catch-cry  ;  but  others  may  have  their  ears  filled  by  such 
and  may  be  kept  longer  than  they  otherwise  would  be 
from  listening  to  the  poet's  word.  "  There  are  two 
kinds  of  obscurity,"  writes  Mr.  Joseph  Plunkett,*  "  the 
obscurity  of  Art  and  the  obscurity  of  Nature  They 
may  be  called  the  obscurity  of  mist  and  the  obscurity  of 
mystery.  They  have  nothing  in  common.  They  are 
as  opposed  as  the  poles. 

"  A  thing  may  be  hidden  by  Art  in  two  ways.  It  may 
be  overlaid  with  irrelevancies,  or  its  expression  may  be 
restrained  to  the  point  of  poverty.  The  effect  is  the 
same.  The  essentials  are  hidden.  In  Nature  also 
(but  by  Nature  we  mean  not  so  much  apparent  Nature 
as  real  Nature)  there  are  two  ways  by  which  things  may 
be  hidden.  They  may  become  so  common  as  not  to  be 
regarded,  or  they  may  be  so  uncommon  as  not  to  permit 

are  very  bad,  the  book  is  a  far  finer  treasury  of  poetry  than 
any  of  the  Anglo-Irish  anthologies.  It  is  drawn  from  the 
lyric  poetry  of  a  full  literature,  though  to  us  a  literature  in 
fragments. 

*  In  The  Irish  Review,  February,  1914. 


THE   LYRIC  OF  THE   IRISH    MODE.  93 

regard.  They  may  be  as  universal  as  light  or  as  unique 
as  the  sun.  Observation  involves  comparison,  and  that 
which  is  entirely  universal  or  absolutely  unique — or 
both — cannot  be  compared  with  anything. 

"  An  artist  is  one  who  has  the  power  of  unveiling 
Nature,  only  to  substitute  the  veils  of  Art.  Indeed  it 
is  by  imposing  the  veils  of  Art  that  he  is  enabled  to 
show  the  real  qualities  and  relations  of  things.  For  the 
veils  of  Art  need  not  be  obscure.  The  vision  of  the 
artist  is  of  such  a  kind  that  it  penetrates  these  veils  and 
thus  can  view  the  realities  underlying  them  that  other- 
wise could  not  be  confronted.  It  is  through  his  Art  that 
the  artist  sees. 

"  The  artist's  task,  however,  is  to  make  others  see  ; 
for  all  Art  is  revelation.  This  he  does  chiefly  by  the  great 
instrument  of  inspiration,  Choice.  He  chooses  the 
portion  or  phase  of  Truth  that  he  is  to  reveal,  and  he 
chooses  the  veils  that  he  must  impose  in  order  to  make 
that  Truth  visible.  Here  it  is  that  the  artist  is  liable  to 
obscurity.  He  is  apt  to  lose  the  consciousness  of  his 
purpose  of  revelation  to  others  in  the  overwhelming 
devotion  that  the  vision  requires.  Then  is  it  that  the 
quality  of  his  inspiration  decides  the  nature  of  the  obscu- 
rity that  is  certain  to  result.  If  his  vision  be  powerful 
and  his  inspiration  deep  he  will  choose  to  scale  the  topless 
peaks  of  beauty  and  attempt  to  set  down  the  splendour 


94  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

of  the  spreading  plains  of  Truth.  He  will  fail  to  clothe 
his  vision  with  the  necessary  veils.  His  work  will  have 
the  obscurity  of  Nature.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  his 
inspiration  be  more  subtle  and  superficial,  running  hither 
and  thither  in  intricate  mazes  of  wonder,  he  will  multiply 
veils  on  detailed  portions  of  his  subject,  adding  one  to 
another  according  as  the  various  points  of  view  and  pos- 
sible relations  of  parts  come  within  his  cognizance  His 
work  will  have  the  obscurity  of  Art." 

In  his  essay  on  Coleridge,  Francis  Thompson  says  : 
'  There  is  not  one  great  poet  who  has  escaped  the  charge 
of  obscurity,  fantasticalness,  or  affectation  of  utterance/' 
With  Mr.  Plunkett  we  may  ask,  Is  there  one  great  poet 
who  has  not  deserved  the  charge  of  obscurity  ?  With 
him  we  may  answer  that  if  we  limit  the  charge  to  that  kind 
of  obscurity  that  he  has  called  the  obscurity  of  Nature 
or  of  Mystery,  then  to  our  knowledge  there  is  none. 

For  the  purposes  of  criticism  here  I  would  say  part  of 
that  in  another  way  of  the  young  poet.  He  takes  for 
known  and  seen  by  others  things  apparent  to  him  only. 
He  begins  by  being  the  seer.  He  becomes  the  interpreter 
and  so  the  maker,  when  he  learns  to  express  the  creature 
of  his  vision  as  it  must  inevitably  be  expressed  for  himself, 
and  in  a  code  known  to  others  too.  But  it  is  better  that 
a  young  poet  should  have  a  vision  and  express  it  only  for 
himself  than  that  he  should  have  only  the  conventional 


THE   LYRIC  OF  THE  IRISH   MODE.  95 

novel  things  worn  by  all  the  poetic  of  his  time.  He  may 
set  too  high  a  value  on  the  secret  phases  of  his  vision. 
The  best  is  that  which  is  universal.  The  poet  finds 
himself  when  he  gives  himself. 

And  these  obscure  young  poets  are  not  all  of  one  kind. 
Like  many  things  that  I  have  mentioned  here,  like  all  the 
men  and  matters  of  the  universe,  these  poets  may  be 
divided  into  two  classes.  There  are  those  who  begin  by 
being  accomplished  and  come  to  power  along  the  road 
which  leads  to  straight  simplicity,  and  those  who  begin 
by  stammering,  those  who  have  slowly  to  master  the 
craft.  The  former  sing  in  well  ordered  words  things 
known  to  them  in  all  details,  unknown  or  strange  to 
others.  The  latter  are  obscure  because  of  their  incoher- 
ency,  their  difficulty  of  utterance. 

I  have  dealt  at  this  length  with  obscurity  in  order  to 
set  right  in  a  little  way  that  wrong  trend  of  our  time  to 
discuss  easily  as  obscure  much  very  sincere  good  work 
of  young  poets  in  Ireland.  In  one  other  way  their  work 
is  almost  of  necessity  obscure  to  all  but  students  of  Irish 
literature  and  those  brought  up  in  the  Irish  tradition. 
To  us  there  is  a  world  of  memory  in  these  lines  of  Padraic 
Colum's  Drover  : 

''  Then  the  wet  winding  roads, 
Brown  bogs  and  black  water, 
And  my  thoughts  on  white  ships 
And  the  King  of  Spain's  daughter." 


96  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

Others  might  well  ask,  Which  King  of  Spain  ?  Why 
white  ships  ?  and  find  nothing  but  suggestions  of  un- 
pleasantness in  the  thought  of  wet  roads,  brown  bogs  and 
black  water.  I  suppose  one  has  to  be  baptised  Irish  to 
feel  the  right  thing,  as  to  be  sure  one  should  be  baptised 
Russian  to  feel  rightly  all  the  beauty  of  Russian  song, 
or  changed  into  Chinese  to  accept  seriously  and  simply 
the  craft  of  the  Chinese  stage. 

And  there  is  the  other  great  cause  of  obscurity.  I 
have  spoken  earlier  of  the  mystic  element  in  Anglo-Irish 
poetry.  Literature,  and  in  consequence,  criticism,  have 
been  so  long  rationalistic  that  mystical  poetry  is  almost 
of  necessity  obscure  to  most  readers.  Most  readers  of 
poetry  expect  clear  plain  statements  to  have  to  do  only 
with  what  they  would  call  plain  things,  things  known  to 
the  outward  senses.  If  a  poet  makes  a  clear  plain  state- 
ment about  any  other  thing — if  he  says  that  he  saw  eternity 
or  heard  the  voice  of  God — which  every  heart  must  hear — 
or  felt  in  his  hands  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  good  and  evil, 
he  is  supposed  to  be  poetising,  to  be  saying  in  a  hard  way 
something  that  he  might  have  said  in  an  easy  way  if  he 
liked,  or  else  something  that  is  mere  nonsense  and  that 
should  not  be  said  at  all.  He  is  asked  for  an  interpre- 
tation. It  scarcely  ever  occurs  to  readers  to  credit  the 
poet  simply.  And  of  course  that  is  not  wonderful.  Since 
the  old  days  of  "  Unknowing  "  in  the  fourteenth  century, 


THE  LYRIC   OF  THE   IRISH   MODE  97 

the  English  language  has  had  little  mystical  use,  and  the 
terms  of  sense  and  wit  now  are  good  in  the  main  only  for 
the  expression  of  the  intellectual  not  of  the  intuitive  facul- 
ties. Most  readers  will  find  it  difficult  or  impossible  to 
enter  the  world  of  the  mystic,  as  in  that  of  all  worlds  it  is 
only  experience  that  teaches,  and  experience  cannot  be 
taught.  There  vanity  is  vain  indeed  ;  pride  always  has 
a  fall.  Every  mystic  has  used  things  known  to  the  outward 
senses  as  figures  of  the  unknown  unknowable  with  which 
the  soul  identifies  itself  in  contemplation.  For  this  he 
often  uses  that  puzzling  form,  paradox  :  this  identity, 
which  is  absolute  knowledge  not  arrived  at  by  reason, 
makes  him  know  the  unknown. 

"  The  middle  of  the  things  I  know 
Is  the  unknown,  and  circling  it 
Life's  truth  and  life's  illusion  show 
Things  in  the  terms  of  sense  and  wit 

Bounded  by  knowledge  thus,  unbound, 

Within  the  temple  thus,  alone, 

Clear  of  the  circle  set  around, 

I  know  not,  being  with  the  unknown. 

But  images  my  memories  use 
Of  sense,  and  terms  of  wit  employ, 
Lest  in  the  known  the  unknown  lose 
The  secret  tidings  of  my  joy." 

It  is  for  the  sake  of  criticism  that  I  make  this  plea 
for  the  credit  of  mysticism  in  our  poetry,  not  for  the 


98  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND 

sake  of  poetry  or  of  the  poets,  to  whom  that  credit  does 
not  matter  at  all      They  have  the  illumination  and  the 

joy- 

The  failure  of  readers  has  been  due  to  yet  another 
cause  then  the  mystery  of  these  poets  :  I  mean  the 
rather  similar  use  of  language  to  a  different  end.  Lord 
Dunsany,  who  writes  a  beautiful  imaginative  prose, 
wants  to  say  that  in  the  evening  silence  settles  on  the 
earth,  and  is  broken  only  by  the  cries  of  the  night  birds 
and  night  beasts.  He  wants  to  say  too  that  the  law 
which  governs  this  fall  of  silence  and  this  breaking  of  the 
silence  of  the  night  is  a  mysterious  and  divine  law  He 
says : 

"  And  when  it  is  dark,  all  in  the  Land  of  Tirboogie 
(the  Lord  of  Dusk)  Hish  creepeth  from  the  forest,  the 
Lord  of  Silence,  whose  children  are  the  bats  who  have 
broken  the  command  of  their  father,  but  in  a  voice  that 
is  ever  so  low  Hish  husheth  the  mouse  and  all  the  whispers 
in  the  night ;  he  maketh  all  noises  still.  Only  the  cricket 
rebelleth.  But  Hish  hath  sent  against  him  such  a  spell 
that  after  he  hath  cried  a  thousand  times  his  voice  may 
be  heard  no  more  but  becometh  part  of  the  silence. 

"  And  when  he  hath  slain  all  sounds  Hish  boweth  low 
to  the  ground  ;  then  cometh  into  the  house,  with  never 
a  sound  of  feet,  the  god  Yoharneth-Lahai. 

"  But  away  in  the  forest  whence  Hish  hath  come, 


THE  LYRIC   OF  THE   IRISH   MODE.  99 

Wohoon,  the  Lord  of  Noises  in  the  Night,  awaketh  in  his 
lair  and  creepeth  round  the  forest  to  see  whether  it  be 
true  that  Hish  hath  gone. 

'  Then  in  some  glade  Wohoon  lifts  up  his  voice  and 
cries  aloud,  that  all  the  night  may  hear,  that  it  is  he, 
Wohoon,  who  is  abroad  in  all  the  forest.  And  the  wolf 
and  the  fox  and  the  owl,  and  the  great  beasts  and  the 
small,  lift  up  their  voices  to  acclaim  Wohoon.  And 
there  arise  the  sounds  of  voices  and  the  stirring  of  leaves  " 
Now  readers  easily  understand  that.  It  means  a  fami- 
liar thing,  though  expressed  in  an  unfamiliar  way.  They 
easily  believe  that  a  mystic  poem  is  expressing  a  familiar 
thing  too,  but  in  a  way  so  unfamiliar  as  to  be  baffling. 
They  think  that  the  poet  invents  his  images,  not  discovers. 
At  worst  they  think  that  the  poet  does  not  himself  know 
what  he  means  or  that  he  means  nothing  at  all,  winning 
confirmation  from  the  poet  when  he  says  that  he  cannot 
express  the  thing  otherwise,  that  he  cannot  simplify 
it  into  prose  terms,  that  he  cannot  limit  it  to  this  appli- 
cation or  that  significance.  Lord  Dunsany  and  writers 
like  him  make  mystery  in  a  gracious  way  about  plain  — 
things.  The  mystic  simply  states  some  well-known 
mystery.  He  tells  of  God  or  of  immortality  or  of  eternity. 
He  reveals  attributes,  beauty  or  knowledge  or  power. 
He  shows  the  significance  of  some  common  things, 
knowing  them  as  emblems  and  symbols  of  things  and 


TOO  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND 

powers  in  eternity.  He  tells  a  revelation  made  to  him 
of  something  like  the  fall  of  man.  His  telling  may  be 
difficult,  but  if  it  is  true  it  will  be  in  clear  terms,  and 
will  be  understood  by  many  from  the  first.*  Most  of  our 
mystic  writings  have  been  and  will  be  in  verse.  The 
rhythm  of  verse  is  in  itself  an  expression  different  from 
the  too  intellectualised  use  of  words  in  prose. 

One  word  more  remains  to  say — of  the  importance, 
even  the  necessity,  of  translation  in  this  literature  of  ours 
Some  of  our  poems  from  the  Irish  are  re-creations.  This 
is  due  immediately  to  the  difference  of  metaphor  in  the 
two  languages,  and  fundamentally  to  that  greater  differ- 
ence of  tradition,  which  is  at  once  the  cause  and  the  sum 
and  the  effect  of  all  our  differences  here.  A  phrase  like 
"  the  star  of  knowledge  "  in  Douglas  Hyde's  translation 
Ringleted  Youth  of  My  Love  has  a  value  that  can  rarely 
be  given  to  such  metaphors  in  English  poetry. 

"  I  thought,  O  my  love  !    you  were  so 

As  the  moon  is,  or  sun  on  a  fountain, 
And  I  thought  after  that  you  were  snow, 
The  cold  snow  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  : 

*The  mystic  poet  indeed  sometimes  fears  too  easy  intelli- 
gibility. "  In  the  manner  of  your  verse,"  wrote  Coventry 
Patmore  to  Francis  Thompson,  "  you  are  gaining  in  simplicity, 
which  is  a  great  thing.  In  the  matter,  I  think  you  outstrip 
me.  I  am  too  concrete  and  intelligible.  I  fear  greatly  lest 
what  I  have  written  may  not  do  more  harm  than  good,  by 
exposing  Divine  realities  to  profane  comprehensions,  and  by 
inflaming  popular  esotericism." 


THE  LYRIC   OF  THE   IRISH   MODE.  '  IOI  ' 

And  I  thought  after  that  you  wefe;m6re'  ' 
Like  God's  lamp  shining  to  find  me, 

Or  the  bright  star  of  knowledge  before 
And  the  star  of  knowledge  behind  me." 

The  phrase  thus  literally  rendered  is  unexpected  and 
exciting  in  a  strange  language  of  different  metaphors  and 
different  logic.  The  translations  are  in  a  way  finer  than 
the  originals.  The  "  star  of  knowledge  "  has  been  used 
too  often  in  Gaelic  poems  to  have  that  new  magic  now. 
And  other  lines  in  the  poem, 

"  Like  a  bush  in  a  gap  in  the  wall 

I  am  now  left  lonely  without  thee," 

which  are  commonplace  in  Irish,  have  here  a  winning 
grace 

The  literature  of  a  race  goes  at  first  to  the  pails  of  those 
who  have  previously  drawn  from  the  well  of  life  of  its 
parent  race.  Chaucer  is  full  of  translations  from  the 
work  of  his  own  people,  the  Normans,  and  from  writers 
among  other  peoples  from  whom  his  people  derived 
culture.  Elizabethan  literature  is  full  of  translations 
and  adaptations  from  older  literatures  in  consonance 
with  the  new  national  life  of  England,  not  from  the 
too  Eastern  or  the  too  Western  literatures.  Shakespeare 
"  stole  "  all  his  plots  and  translated  many  of  his  sonnets 
and  songs.  Later  poets  derive  from  Chaucer,  from 
Shakespeare  and  his  contemporaries,  from  Milton.  With 


102  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

the  exception  of  the  returned  refugees  to  the  court  of 
Louis  Quatorze,  they  no  longer  to  any  great  extent  find 
their  originals  abroad.  Our  characteristic  ways  of 
thought  and  ways  of  life  in  Ireland  have  been  expressed 
in  Irish  :  other  ways,  which  we  have  in  common  with 
other  peoples,  have  been  expressed  in  other  languages. 
Mangan  and  Padraic  Colum  go  to  Arabic  as  well  as  to 
Irish  for  their  originals.  All  of  us  find  in  Irish  rather 
than  in  English  a  satisfying  understanding  of  certain 
ways  of  ours  and  the  best  expression  of  certain  of  our 
emotions.  So  we  are  expressing  ourselves  in  translating 
from  the  Irish.  When  we  translate  from  the  French  we 
express  Ronsard,  say,  a  man  of  a  different  climate  at  least 
and  of  a  different  complexity  of  civilization,  a  man  who 
warns  his  lady  that  her  maids  long  hence  of  a  drowsy 
evening,  carding  wool,  will  start  at  the  name  of  the  poet 
who  sings  her  praises  now,  warns  her  that  she  will  regret 
her  proud  disdain  while  he,  a  pale  phantom,  will  haunt 
the  myrtle  shades  This  is  a  different  world,  even  in  the 
version  of  Mr.  Yeats,  from  that  of  Raftery  the  poet  full 
of  hope  and  of  love,  playing  music  to  empty  pockets, 
from  the  deck  of  Patrick  Lynch' s  boat  sailing  from  the 
County  of  Mayo,  different  from  Cashel  of  Munster, 
different  from  the  Hill  of  Howth,  "  clear  Ben  above  a  sea 
of  gulls,"  different  the  whole  distance  between  comfort 
and  the  outlawry  of  our  kith,  from  the  world  of  that 


THE  LYRIC  OF  THE  IRISH  MODE.  103 

untranslateable  Eamonn  an  Chnuic,  which  yet  we  would 
all  translate.  The  national  rose  of  Ireland  is  An  Roisin 
Dubh,  the  Little  Black  Rose,  not  the  tender  red  flower 
to  be  plucked  with  the  joys  of  life.* 

At  present  a  large  amount  of  translation  is  natural. 
Later,  when  we  have  expressed  again  in  English  all  the 
emotions  and  experiences  expressed  already  in  Irish, 
this  literature  will  go  forward,  free  from  translation. 
Through  the  English  language  has  come  a  freshening 
breath  from  without :  with  the  Gaelic  Renaissance  has 
come  a  new  stirring  of  national  consciousness  :  these 
two  have  been  the  great  influences  in  all  new  literatures. 
At  that  I  can  leave  it,  at  that  freshening  and  that  stirring 
of  it.  It  is  well  for  us  that  our  workers  are  poets  and  our 
poets  workers.  '  The  more  a  man  gives  his  life  to 
poetry/'  said  Francis  Thompson,  "  the  less  poetry  he 
writes."  And  it  is  well  too  that  here  still  that  cause 
which  is  identified,  without  underthought  of  commerce, 
with  the  cause  of  God  and  Right  and  Freedom,  the 
cause  which  has  been  the  great  theme  of  our  poetry,  may 
any  day  call  the  poets  to  give  their  lives  in  the  old  service. 

*"Cueillez  des  aujourdhui  les  roses  tie  la  vie."     Ronsard. 


104  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 


VIII. 

IRISH  LITERATURE. 

WHEN  canons  of  criticism  have  been  drawn  from  the  works 
of  one  antiquity  and  applied  from  age  to  age  to  all  work 
of  similar  kind,  when  side  by  side  with  the  "  maker  " 
has  gone  the  critic  and  the  historian,  it  is  at  least  difficult 
for  an  heir  of  these  ages  adequately  at  once  to  judge 
the  work  of  a  different  antiquity.  When,  moreover,  it 
has  become  part  of  the  common  thought  that  the  style 
is  the  man,  when  the  work  of  a  writer  is,  in  the  common 
mind,  almost  indissolubly  linked  with  a  known  person- 
ality, a  body  of  fugitive  lyrics,  the  work  of  unknown 
men,  cannot  win  recognition  without  very  valid  claims 
of  intrinsic  merit.  Modern  European  criticism  has 
adopted,  with  whatever  modifications,  canons  drawn  from 
the  works  of  Greek  and  Latin  literature.  It  founds  its 
admiration  on  these  works.  In  them  it  finds  its  touch- 
stones of  criticism.  It  has  not  broken  from  the  hypnotism 
of  their  old  convention.  Example  is  the  best  definition. 
Some  odes  of  Horace,  with  no  philosophy  and  no  emo- 
tional appeal,  with  nothing  of  the  thrill  of  lyric  singing, 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  105 

are  still  traditionally  admired.  The  admiration  is  in 
part  due  to  the  influence  of  the  conventional  criticism, 
which  drew  its  canons  originally  from  work  of  the  tra- 
dition in  which  the  poet  wrote,  and  which  now  applies 
these  canons  to  that  work.  In  part  also  it  is  due  to  the 
influence  of  the  known  personality.  For  in  such  a  case 
the  man  is  the  thing  just  as  much  as  the  play,  as  much 
as  the  poem.  The  anonymous  songs  have  their  place, 
but  the  literatures,  as  literatures,  are  judged  by  the  great 
names.  To  use  again  the  example  of  Horace,  we  know 
more  of  him  and  his  time  than  we  know  of  the  life  and 
times  of  many  modern  poets.  We  think  of  him  in  terms 
of  his  urbanitas  and  his  curiosa  felicitas  ;  still  he  may 
prophesy  as  of  old  : 

ego  postera 
crescam  laude  recens, 

for  always  we  admire  his  modernness,  a  quality  which  may 
as  well  be  shown  in  the  interpretation  of  some  ancient 
artificiality  which  has  lived  on  into  our  modern  civil- 
isation, as  in  the  expression  of  some  old  natural  emotion 
of  the  heart  of  man.  So  we  go  to  our  Horace,  so  we  go 
to  our  Villon,  the  scapegrace  ;  so  we  go  to  some  or 
other  "  marvellous  boy,"  some  "  sleepless  soul."  Con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  we  are  influenced  in  reading 
Keats  by  the  thought  of  his  twenty-five  years. 

The   Gaelic   Renaissance  is  only   beginning.     It  can 


IC6  LITERATURE    IN   IRELAND. 

never  be  of  just  the  same  importance  and  influence  as  the 
Classic.  It  goes  back  to  a  literature  of  a  different  kind  from 
the  Greek  and  Latin,  a  literature  almost  entirely  anony- 
mous, a  literature  without  epic  or  dramatic  verse,  a  litera- 
ture, as  far  as  poetry  is  concerned,  of  fragments — little  per- 
sonal poems,  nature  poems,  religious  poems,  short  dramatic 
monologues  and  dramatic  lyrics  interspersed  in  prose 
tales.  And  yet  it  has  been  claimed  for  this  remnant  of 
literature,  and  claimed  by  the  best  authority  in  the  matter, 
Doctor  Kuno  Meyer,  that  as  "  the  earliest  voice  from 
the  dawn  of  West  European  civilization,  it  is  the  most 
primitive  and  original  among  the  literatures  of  Western 
Europe."  Most  original,  and  of  not  least  intrinsic  worth. 
It  is  a  fragment.  It  must  not  be  judged  as  if  it  were  a 
fragment  of  a  literature  of  the  Hellenic  kind.  The 
difference  between  Greek  and  Gael  is  no  fiction.  In  the 
purely  Gaelic-speaking  places,  the  people  to  the  present 
day  have  their  ways  of  thought  and  life  different  from  the 
ways  of  Hellenised  Europe.  The  knowledge  and  the 
influence  of  Rome  and,  through  Rome,  of  Greece  has  not 
been  unknown,  but  the  matter  and  the  outlook  and  the 
manner  of  the  old  poems  are  native.  Native  too  is  the 
reservation  of  the  verse  form  for  the  use  of  lyric  poetry. 
Because  to  say  that  the  literature  is  without  epic 
verse  is  not  to  say  that  it  is  without  epic. 
The  Tain  is  a  literature  in  itself.  The  Gaelic 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  IOJ 

imagination  invented  abundantly  hero  tales  and 
tales  of  sorrow  and  humour  such  as  others  would  have 
shaped  into  verse  epic  and  tragedy  and  comedy.  But 
prose  was  the  natural  vehicle  for  Gaelic  narrative.  In 
his  essay,  from  which  I  have  quoted  (the  introduction 
to  his  book  of  translations,  Ancient  Irish  Poetry),  Dr. 
Meyer  draws  attention  to  the  fact  that  in  later  centuries, 
when  the  Arthurian  epics  were  done  into  Gaelic,  they  were 
all  turned  from  verse  into  prose.  This,  if  it  prove  any- 
thing, proves  less  a  want  of  power  than  a  sensitive  sin- 
cerity. Verse  epic  and  drama  would  have  seemed  to  the 
Gaelic  mind  as  founded  on  a  convention  of  make-believe. 
The  Gaelic  Renaissance  means  to  us  not  only  the  revival 
of  interest  in  this  old  Irish  literature,  the  revival  of  interest 
in  the  civilization,  the  culture  and  the  history  of  ancient 
Ireland,  the  enthusiasm,  the  adventure,  the  pride,  the 
satisfaction,  the  emotion  that  are  quickened  by  the 
discovery  of  the  old  monuments,  but,  added  to  these,  the 
study  of  modern  Irish  as  a  language  capable  of  literature, 
the  interest  in  the  fragments  and  traditions  that  have 
survived,  the  reconstruction  of  our  new  state  on  some  of 
the  old  foundations,  and  so,  patriotism.  A  recent  writer 
has  lamented  that  instead  of  the  Classic  there  did  not  take 
place  in  the  fourteenth  century  a  Gaelic  Renaissance. 
Of  course,  the  lament  and  all  discussion  of  it  is  futile. 
I  listen  dreamily  to  it.  To  the  speakers  of  the  Romance 


108  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND. 

languages,  to  the  readers  of  Romance  literatures,  the 
Classic  Renaissance  was  such  as  to  a  strange  people,  who 
had  seen  only  the  statues  of  men  of  our  race,  would  be  the 
sight  of  the  living  models.  The  remarkable  thing  about 
the  coming  of  the  Classic  Renaissance  is  not  its  coming 
in  the  fourteenth  century,  but  its  not  coming  earlier 
The  coming  was  inevitable.  It  was  long  prepared  for. 
And  when  we  use  the  same  word,  Renaissance,  for  the 
Gaelic  revival,  springing  from  the  rediscovery  of  the 
ancient  language  and  literature,  and  branching  now  into 
a  double  literature  in  two  languages,  we  do  not  claim 
that  it  is  quite  the  counterpart  of  the  Classic.  The  old 
literature  that  was  to  be  discovered,  the  ancient  Irish 
art,  were  not  in  such  consonance  even  with  what  of 
literature  and  art  we  still  held,  as  were  Classic  literature 
and  art  with  those  of  mediaeval  Europe,  with  the  culture 
that  still  held  allegiance  to  Rome  and  had  memories  of 
ancient  Greece.  Still  at  the  heart  of  that  lament  for  a 
Gaelic  Renaissance  five  hundred  years  ago  is  this  truth, 
that  if  history  had  been  different  the  ancient  culture 
and  the  ancient  literature  of  our  people  might  have  had 
a  more  powerful  influence  on  the  culture  and  literature 
of  Europe.  The  Celtic  peoples  had  kindred  memories 
with  ours  though  they  had  changed  their  speech.  Of 
Gaelic  influence  in  literature,  in  art,  in  music,  there 
have  always  been  the  sure  marks  and  the  sure  effects, 


IRISH    LITERATURE.  IOQ 

as  has  been  pointed  out  by  Dr.  Sigerson  and  others  ; 
but  only  during  the  last  century  has  it  come  home  and 
thriven. 

This  is  not  the  place  to  attempt  a  history  of  the  Revival. 
I  propose  here  rapidly  to  survey  portions  of  the  literature 
of  ancient  Ireland  and  to  come  thence  to  the  literature 
and  the  prospects  of  to-day.  The  poems  of  Old  Irish 
are  from  eight  to  fourteen  centuries  old.  There  has  been 
in  the  intervening  period  a  steady  enough  stream  of 
Hterature  in  Middle  and  Modern  Irish  ;  but  my  ignorance 
of  all  but  a  small  amount  of  this  and  my  sympathy  with 
the  way  of  the  old  time  send  me  back  to  the  beginning 
and  then  draw  me  home  to  the  new  age  opening  now. 

The  themes  of  Early  Irish  Literature  are  many  of 
them  the  themes  of  modern  romantic  literature — in 
lyric  poetry,  nature  and  humanity  : — nature  :  the  joy  of 
natural  things  ;  the  joy  of  the  earth's  beauty,  the  woods 
and  the  birds  in  the  woods  ;  the  delight  of  summer, 
season  surpassing,  grateful  to  dwellers  in  a  northern  land  ; 
the  terror  of  the  white  winter  when  not  a  bell  is  heard 
and  no  crane  talks,  when  shapes  are  all  gone  ;  the  joy 
of  the  sea,  the  plain  of  Ler,  with  its  witching  song,  the 
delightful  home  of  ships,  the  image  of  Hell  with  its  dread 
tempest : — humanity  :  men  and  women,  love  and  destiny  : 
humanity  at  odds  with  life  :  a  king  and  a  hermit ;  a  girl 
who  died  for  love  ;  a  warrior  who  kept  his  tryst  after  death  ; 


110  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

Deirdre,  the  predestined  of  sorrow,  winning  some  joy 
from  life  before  her  fate  falls  ;  an  old  woman  who  has 
seen  the  passing  away  of  her  famous  beauty,  who  sees 
the  ebb  tide  carrying  away  her  years,  who  sees  the  flood- 
wave  foaming  in  for  others.  Later,  after  the  English 
are  settled  in  the  land,  not  humanity  but  the  nation, 
Kathleen  ni  Houlihan,  is  our  heroic  theme.  The  mani- 
festations of  nationality  are  symbolised  by  man  and 
nature.  The  silk  of  the  kine  goes  lurking  in  the  woods, 
weeping  down  tears,  while  her  foe  has  wine  on  his  table. 
The  little  shining  rose  is  black.  Ned  of  the  Hill  beats 
on  the  bolted  door  of  the  Nation  ;  he  is  out  under  the 
snow,  under  the  frost,  under  the  rain,  without  comrade- 
ship, hunted  with  hail  of  bullets,  desolate  most  of  all  at 
the  thought  that  he  must  go  east  over  the  sea  because  it 
is  there  he  has  no  kindred.  No  wonder  that  those 
who,  lured  by  the  felicity  of  gracious  words,  have  learned 
to  read  with  satisfaction  in  Shakespeare  the  easy  hideous 
history  of  the  English  Wars  of  the  Roses,  half  won  to 
sympathy  with  ravening  lust  and  barbarity,  are  perplexed 
by  Gaelic  Literature  of  the  middle  period.  And  so  all 
Irish  Literature  is  set  down  as  vague,  mysterious,  obscure. 
Nothing  could  be  more  clear,  more  direct,  more  gem-like, 
hard  and  delicate  and  bright,  than  the  earlier  lyric  poetry, 
nothing  more  surely  true  to  nature,  full  of  natural  piety, 
nothing  of  another  kind  greater  in  suggestion,  however 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  Ill 

brief  in  form.  Not  till  the  advent  of  Wordsworth  comes 
there  anything  like  this  intimacy  with  nature  into  other 
modern  literature.  Not  till  we  listen  to  the  voice  of 
Shelley  do  we  hear  in  other  lyric  poetry  such  prophecy 
of  song  as  has  come  down  through  folk  poetry  in  Irish, 
a  lyric  poetry  which,  as  Mr.  John  Eglinton  said  some 
years  ago,  "  has  far  more  in  common  with  the  later 
developments  of  English  poetry — with  poems,  for  example, 
like  Shelley's  When  the  Lamp  is  Shattered  or  George 
Meredith's  Love  in  a  Valley — than  anything  produced 
by  the  wits  of  the  London  coffee  houses/' 

The  themes  of  the  old  sagas  have  been  used  by  many 
in  our  day  as  the  story  of  the  Trojan  war  has  been  used  by 
many  nations  that  read  Greek.  Deirdre  is  to  us 

"  the  morning  star  of  loveliness, 
Unhappy  Helen  of  a  western  land."  * 

They  have  not  been  used  as  successfully  as  the  Greek 
models.  They  are  not  the  inheritance  of  this  alien 
civilization.  They  require  different  standards.  To 
quote  Mr.  John  Eglinton  again  :  "  These  subjects,  much 
as  we  may  admire  them  and  regret  that  we  have  nothing 
equivalent  to  them  in  the  modern  world,  obstinately 
refuse  to  be  taken  up  out  of  their  old  environment,  and 
be  transplanted  into  the  world  of  modern  sympathies. 

*The  Three  Sorrows  of  Story -Telling  :  Deirdre,  by  Douglas  Hyde. 


112  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

The  proper  mode  of  treating  them  is  a  secret  lost  with  the 
subjects  themselves."  It  is  possible,  of  course  that,  while 
I  write,  these  dicta  are  being  disproved.  It  would  be 
vain,  even  if  unluckily  we  wished  it  or  could  do  it,  to  set 
bounds  to  literary  genius,  which  is  always  breaking  new 
soil,  or  rather  always  corning  in  a  new  manifestation. 
It  is  at  its  best  and  highest  a  new  epiphany.  Some  in 
our  day  or  after  our  day  may  make  a  great  new  literature 
in  the  tradition  of  this  old  world  of  Early  Irish  Literature. 
But  I  rather  expect  that  the  literature  of  to-morrow  will 
be  in  terms  of  the  life  of  to-morrow,  and  that  the  old 
world  is  too  different,  too  far  apart  too  much  wronged 
now,  I  fear,  by  misrepresentation,  by  false  praise  that 
would  make  it  good  of  another  kind  than  of  its  way  of 
goodness,  by  false  blame  that  would  call  its  culture 
barbarism,  its  strength  brutality  or  impropriety,  its 
mysticism  magic,  its  austere  sincerity  in  literature  a 
defect  of  power  and  richness,  its  power  and  richness, 
when  it  has  such,  exaggeration.  We  may  admit  that  we 
cannot  now  feel  those  old  emotions  at  first  heart,  so  to 
put  it.  We  have  not  reverence  for  the  same  things. 
We  cannot  pray  to  the  old  gods.  We  could  not  blaspheme 
the  old  gods.  We  are  of  a  different  day  ;  a  different 
light  shines  upon  us.  History  is  between  us  and  our 
heroes.  We  cannot  rid  our  memories  of  the  glories 
and  the  calamities  of  our  story,  of  the  mighty  things, 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  113 

of  the  futile  things.  Our  thought  is  woven  of  the  stuff 
of  memory  and  elder  thought  and  of  a  knowledge  that 
has  gained  on  this  side  and  lost  on  that  like  an  island 
in  the  sea.  Our  dreams  are  children  dreams  and  parent 
dreams.  A  part  of  the  old  world  lives  in  us  ;  to  a  large 
part  we  are  alien  not  in  speech  only  but  in  feeling,  in 
sense,  in  instinct,  in  vision.  We  are  true  to  the  best  of 
the  old  literature  when  we  are  true  to  that  part  of  it  which 
we  inherit  now  in  the  twentieth  century,  when  we  discover 
in  ourselves  something  of  its  good  tradition,  something 
that  has  remained  true  by  the  changing  standards  and 
measures. 

I  have  quoted  the  phrase  "  the  earliest  voice  from  the 
dawn  of  West  European  civilization  ;"  but  I  should  not 
like  to  be  taken  as  meaning  that  this  old  literature  is  a 
beginning  in  itself,  a  first  stammering,  a  simple  babbling 
of  simple  things  on  the  lips  of  a  people  just  articulate. 
It  is  probably  nothing  of  the  kind.  These  pieces  are  but 
stray  survivors  of  stray  written  records  of  poems  that 
strayed  down  for  a  long  time  by  oral  tradition.  They 
were  written  in  the  Golden  Age  of  Irish  civilization,  during 
the  sixth,  seventh  and  eighth  centuries.  And  even  so 
only  two  or  three  poems  have  come  down  from  those 
centuries  in  contemporary  manuscripts.  The  records 
that  we  have  are  copies  made  long  after.  The  language 
proves  the  earlier  composition. 


114  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

Here  then  is  still  another  point  of  difference  between 
this  lyric  poetry  and  the  classic  of  Greece  and  Rome. 
And  to  point  the  difference  we  can  take  a  parallel 
example  from  a  different  portion  of  the  same 
literature.  Professor  Eoin  Mac  Neill  in  the  Intro- 
duction to  his  fine  edition  of  the  first  part  of 
Duanaire  Finn  (The  Book  of  the  Lays  of  Fionn) 
has  shown  that  while  one  of  the  great  Irish  epics,  the 
Ulidian  cycle,  became  crystallised  and  assumed  what 
may  be  called  a  classic  form  in  the  hands  of  the  Milesian 
writers,  the  other,  the  Fenian  cycle,  remained  always 
modern,  constantly  undergoing  reformation,  always  popu- 
lar. For  the  full  statement  of  this  I  must  refer  readers 
to  the  Introduction.  To  make  clear  my  reference  here 
I  quote  a  few  paragraphs  : 

"  The  Milesian  writers,  when  they  adopted  the  Ulidian 
hero-lore,  adopted  it  as  a  classic,  with  all  the  extreme 
reverence  shown  by  people  new  to  any  form  of  culture 
towards  those  from  whom  that  culture  is  received,  and  by 
whom  it  has  been  developed.  The  Ulidian  sagas,  having 
once  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  dominant  race,  became 
rigidly  crystallized,  and  ceased  to  evolve.  Most  of  the 
changes  they  afterwards  suffered  were  due,  not  to  in- 
vention, but  to  the  limitations  of  the  scribes. 

"  The  early  history  of  the  Fenian  hero-lore  was  quite 
different.  The  cycle  remained  in  the  possession  of  the 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  115 

subject  races  apparently  until  about  the  tenth  century. 
As  the  Milesians,  though  masters  of  nearly  all  Ireland, 
never  colonized  more  than  about  one- third  of  the  country, 
the  remaining  two-thirds  continuing  in  the  occupation 
of  the  older  races  and  under  the  rule  of  their  native 
kings,  it  is  evident  that  this  epic  of  a  subject  race  had  an 
extensive  public  to  whose  sympathies  it  could  present  a 
strong  appeal.  Thus  it  must  have  spread  from  North 
Leinster,  where  it  first  took  shape,  through  a  large  part 
of  Ireland,  ultimately  reaching  the  furthest  bounds  of 
Gaelic  speech.  The  period  I  postulate  for  this  extension 
is  the  early  centuries  of  Milesian  domination,  mainly 
between  the  years  400  and  700.  During  this  time  the 
Fenian  tradition  must  have  been  purely  oral,  and 
therefore  susceptible  of  local  development  to  any 
extent.  .  .  . 

"  It  may  be  asked  why,  if  the  Fenian  cycle  was  thus 
spread  over  Ireland,  and  accessible  to  the  Milesian  writers 
at  all  points,  it  was  not  taken  up  by  them  in  preference 
to  the  Ulidian  cycle,  which,  until  the  seventh  century, 
was  confined  to  one  remote  district.  The  question  has 
already  been  partly  answered.  The  Ulidian  cycle  came 
armed  with  the  great  prestige  of  letters.  But  a  still  more 
potent  reason  must  have  operated.  In  the  seventh 
century  the  Ulidians  were  a  free  race.  ...  A  con- 
quering and  dominant  aristocracy  (the  Milesians)  would 


Il6  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

appreciate  such  a  story  of  freemen  coming  from  freemen. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  Fenian  epic  was  in  form  and 
essence  the  story  of  a  vassal  race 

1  The  history  of  the  Fenian  epic,  as  I  have  essayed  to 
reconstruct  it,  offers  an  easy  solution  of  several  problems. 
It  explains  the  form  of  the  heroic  narrative,  and  the 
peculiar  role  of  the  heroes.  It  explains  the  long-deferred 
appearance  of  the  epic  in  written  literature,  and  its  forward 
state  of  development  when  at  length  it  does  appear.  It 
explains  also  the  almost  exclusive  popularity  of  the  epic — 
its  position  for  many  centuries  as  the  chief  hero-lore  of 
the  Gaelic-speaking  races  of  Ireland  and  Scotland. 

"  The  legend  of  the  Fiana,  as  it  spread  from  race  to 
race,  was  constantly  undergoing  reformation,  and  at  no 
time  acquired,  like  the  Ulidian  story,  a  classic  and  final 
form.  It  remained  always  modern,  not  only  in  lan- 
guage, but  in  the  sense  of  being  entirely  the  property  of 
each  succeeding  generation  of  story-tellers  and  ballad- 
makers." 

Do  I  take  from  its  honour  in  holding  that  we  have  not 
in  Old,  Middle  and  Modern  Irish  a  complete,  continued 
literature  ;  that,  excuse  it  as  you  may  by  the  many  good 
reasons  of  history,  it  is  a  literature  thwarted  and  frustrate 
in  many  forms,  and  in  the  last  two  centuries  or  more  a 
literature  in  decadence  ?  Rather  I  think  that  I  hold  a 
higher  hope  in  looking  for  a  new  literature  from  now. 


IRISH    LITERATURE.  1 17 

If  the  works  of  some  of  our  contemporaries  be  not  the  first 
stammerings  of  a  new  literature  that  will  have  to  go  to 
school  again,  then  they  are  the  final  senile  babblings  of 
one  moribund. 

To  the  eyes  of  criticism,  Irish  literature,  after  having 
suffered  unparalleled  persecution  under  the  long  terror 
of  English  rule,  still  suffers  wrong  even  from  its  Irish 
admirers.  It  has  in  the  first  place  been  used  as  quarry 
by  modern  authors  in  English.  The  result,  as  I  have 
pointed  out,  has  not  been  fortunate.  Deirdre,  the 
subject  of  many  plays,  is  an  "  unhappy  Helen  "  indeed. 

Then  it  has  suffered  criticism  from  learned  people 
who  do  not  know  the  Irish  language,  who  cannot  tell  their 
stories  as  eye-witnesses,  who  are  at  the  mercy  of  faulty 
translators,  faulty  philologists,  faulty  expositors,  and 
who  thus  give  currency  to  mistakes,  mistranslations  and 
misconceptions.  The  great  name  of  Matthew  Arnold 
will  save  me  from  the  anger  of  Miss  Eleanor  Hull  whom  I 
set  down  with  him. 

A  third  wrong  that  Irish  literature  has  suffered  is 
perhaps  worse  than  these,  being  akin  to  the  higher  criti- 
cism. The  old  Irish  hero-lore  became  to  a  degree 
fashionable  at  the  same  time  as  sun  myths  and  the  like. 
Now  new  religions  are  made  out  of  half-understood  pas- 
sages of  the  old  literature,  India,  of  course,  contributing 
whatever  is  not  to  be  found  in  these.  If  anyone  has  a 


Il8  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

favourite  theory  of  the  invisible  world,  he  can  use  the 
translation  of  an  obscure  old  Irish  poem  for  text.  The 
English  words  used  in  the  version  are  sure  to  lend  them- 
selves to  the  vague  suggestion  needed.  In  a  similar  way 
personages  of  the  old  tales  are  identified  with  gods  of 
foreign  mythologies  ;  their  strange  acts  and  their  strange 
motives  are  made  stranger  still,  losing  humanity.  Life 
in  some  new  redactions  of  the  ancient  sagas  is  not  this 
familiar  way  that  we  all  know  for  all  our  differences  of 
tradition  and  literature,  this  way  of  love,  this  way  of 
wonder,  this  way  of  commerce.  A  poet  of  the  Irish 
Mode  has  declared  that  to  Standish  O'Grady  he  and 
his  comrades  owe  their  introduction  to  Celtic  hero-lore 
The  introduction  then  has  been  of  a  very  special  kind 
Standish  O'Grady  is  a  poet  who  walks  this  earth  as  if  it 
were  another  earth,  who  finds  and  proves  it  another. 
In  him  vision  is  more  than  sight.  Such  as  he,  in  this 
mean  time  of  compromise  and  commerce  and  materialism, 
may  find  it  hard  not  to  forget  that  all  times  are,  for  all  we 
know,  equally  mean,  and  so,  equally  noble — mean  to  the 
low  and  noble  to  the  high.  Poets  in  every  generation 
regret  the  good  times  of  a  better  past,  seeing  in  the  glass 
of  death  only  the  heavenly  colours  that  the  blessed  have 
taken  on,  seeing  sometimes  in  the  glass  of  life  only  one 
commerce  of  their  kind,  the  traffic  of  dross  and  the 
strife  with  hunger,  and  material  utility  in  the  mart  out- 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  1 19 

bidding  the  ideal.     Such  a  one  may  forget  or  may  not 
believe  that  commerce,  even  this  one  commerce,  has  not 
only  its  material  utility  but  also  its  glory,  its  intrepid  adven- 
ture, its  strangeness  and  richness  of  far-off  lands  and  seas 
and  peoples,  and  so,  its  culture  of  wonder  and  imagination, 
its  fosterage  of  the  arts.     Such  a  one  may  forget  or  may 
not  believe  that  this  one  commerce  is  the  business  set 
over  against  the  dream,  keeping  the  dream  true.     The 
shop-keeper  of  to-day  is  the  father  of  the  poet,  of  the 
hero,  of  the  saint  of  to-morrow.     Standish  O'Grady,  too, 
searching  for  the  ancient  heroes,  may  have  forgotten 
these  and  similar  things,  or  may  not  have  believed  them. 
He  is  different  from  many  who  keep  only  them  in  mind. 
For  the  poets  of  the  Irish  Mode  it  was  he  that  found  the 
dun  in  which  the  wild  riders  of  ancient  Irish  hero-lore 
were  confined.     It  was  he  that  let  them  forth,  them  or 
phantasies  of  them.      Phantasies,  some  believe  who  have 
gone  later  into  the  dun  and  seen  the  riders  there.    The 
things  that  he  let  forth  were  viewed  by  alien  moderns  as 
Oisin  was  viewed  by  the  convertites  of  Patrick,  and  by 
some  that  were  pagan  still.    They  were  a  wonder  as  they 
rode,  and  they  sang  in  a  strange  tongue.     The  moderns 
who  sought  to  set  down  in  alien  letters  their  semblance 
and  their  song  told  of  vague  romantic  mystery  about  them, 
The  others  who  have  gone  into  the  dun  have  known  of  no 
such  mystery.     They  have  listened  to  their  song  in  its 


I2O  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

own  language,  and  they  hold  that  by  the  poets  it  has  been 
misinterpreted  quite.  The  poets  have  used  the  frame 
of  Irish  story  as  a  frame  whereon  to  weave  the  palpable 
stuff  of  their  vision  and  their  interpretation  of  the  heroic 
in  life.  Their  vision  is  a  mistranslation  ;  not  for  the  first 
time  has  the  world  owed  a  beautiful  thing  to  a  mistrans- 
lation of  genius.  The  original  is  a  work  of  genius  in 
another  way  of  beauty.  And  yet  for  all  that  I  have  said 
here,  for  all  their  error  of  half-heard  words,  the  poets  may 
be  nearer  to  the  rhythm  of  the  ancient  song  than  those 
of  us  who  spell  the  words  in  full.  Some  of  the  ancient 
tales,  some  passages  in  the  epics,  are  altogether  incredible 
and  impossible  to  our  modern  ways  of  thought  and  life 
here.  May  they  not  have  other  than  their  apparent 
meanings  ?  They  have  the  impossibility  of  the  fairy 
tale.  Perhaps  they  have  the  enduring  truth  of  the  fairy 
tale,  of  the  parable,  of  the  fable,  which  is  truer  than  a 
history  that  owes  so  much  to  accident  and  whim  and 
personality. 

The  characteristic  qualities  of  the  ancient  Irish  lyrics 
are  those  of  good  lyric  poetry  the  world  over.  They 
have  a  simplicity  which  is  never  simplesse.  They  have  a 
sincerity  free  from  self-consciousness.  Enemies  of  poetry 
as  of  truth  are  make-believe  and  pedantry  and  eloquence  : 
essential  to  true  poetry  are  sincerity  and  clarity.  Newman 
defined  literature  as  the  personal  use  or  exercise  of  Ian- 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  121 

guage,  for  the  expression,  that  is,  of  the  personal  vision  or 
the  individual  emotion.  Yet  the  vision  and  the  expression 
of  all  but  a  few  lack  the  distinction  of  poetry.  The  more 
distinct  the  vision,  the  more  distinct  the  utterance  of  the 
emotion,  the  nearer  is  the  utterance  to  poetry — granted 
always  sincere  distinction,  not  mere  quaintness,  above  all 
not  affectation  or  eccentricity.  True  freshness  of  outlook 
js  rare  in  those  who  possess  the  use  of  reason  ;  it  is  lost 
generally  with  the  first  teeth.  And  it  is  not  only  "  the 
light  of  common  day  "  that  destroys  "  the  vision  splendid  " 
seen  in  early  youth  ;  the  hypnotists  of  convention  throw 
over  the  eyes  of  all  but  a  few  a  glamour  of  make-believe, 
and  tune  all  tongues  but  a  few  in  each  age  to  their  own 
accents. 

As  a  rule  posterity  soon  enough  finds  out  sham  in 
literature  ;  ultimately  it  is  sure  to  do  so  ;  but  the  hypno- 
tism of  a  convention  holds  long  at  times  ;  the  spell  of 
make-believe  is  not  always  as  easily  broken  by  the  voice 
of  a  child  as  it  was  in  Hans  Andersen's  tale  of  the  Invisible 
Clothes.  Words  have  a  tradition  that  gives  them  a  price 
afvd  worth  in  currency  apart  from  their  weight  and  their 
intrinsic  value.  Those  Odes  of  Horace,  referred  to  by 
me  at  the  beginning,  inferior  odes,  have  in  them  well  done 
what  a  long  line  of  poets  has  sought  to  do.  But  those 
odes  to  a  fresh  mind,  not  under  the  hypnotism,  would 
seem  merely  fine  words  well  set,  and  not  poetry  at  all. 


122  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

The  ultimate  great  test  I  believe  to  be  the  test  of  trans- 
lation or  transmission.  "  A  thing  well  said,"  declares 
Dry  den,  "  will  be  wit  in  aH  languages."  The  high  things 
of  the  Scriptures,  the  words  of  Our  Lord  about  con- 
sidering the  lilies  of  the  field,  are  still  poetry  in  all  lan- 
guages. When  the  language  of  their  first  expression 
is  dead  and  the  day  of  its  most  gracious  felicities  is  over, 
they  still  live.  If  Shakespeare's  phrases  refuse  to  trans- 
late beautifully  into  some  tongues,  it  is  that  their  beauty 
consists  rather  in  felicity  of  words  than  in  high  poetry. 
All  that  is  great  in  his  dramatic  power,  in  his  creation  of 
character,  in  his  philosophy,  will  be  great  in  other  lan- 
guages, only  indeed  less  great  for  want  of  that  Shakes- 
pearean diction.  On  the  other  hand,  some  things,  in 
verse,  are  finer  when  translated  into  a  language  like 
English  than  in  their  original,  finer  in  their  translation 
by  Arthur  O'Shaughnessy  than  in  their  original  French 
of  Sully  Prudhomme,  finer  on  an  occasion  (as  I  have  shown 
above)  in  the  English  of  Douglas  Hyde  than  in  their 
original  Irish. 

But  this  new  consideration  would  draw  me  aside  from 
those  essentials  of  true  poetry  which  must  be  re-stated 
before  we  can  duly  criticize  Irish  poetry — and  re-stated 
clearly,  in  terms  which  may  seem  almost  too  obvious. 
How  otherwise  may  one  state  clarity  ? 

The  object  of  language  is  to  express  something.     The 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  123 

clearer  the  expression,  the  more  successful  it  is.  All  the 
great  things  of  literature  that  live  are  clear,  however 
obscure  to  a  passing  age,  even  their  own,  blinded  by 
lalse  knowledge.  They  are  terse  and  sufficient,  yet  with 
great  lucid  beauty,  with  the  authentic  accent  of  true 
knowledge,  of  true  feeling,  of  true  interpretation.  Per- 
haps the  clarity  of  some  of  them  seemed  in  their  first  day 
a  fault.  A  critic  has  written  of  the  "  terrible  simplicity'* 
of  Catullus.  To  some  of  his  contemporaries  the  poetry  of 
Catullus  may  have  seemed  bald  and  obvious,  wanting  in 
the  graces  of  art.  On  the  other  hand,  Matthew  Arnold's 
famous  "  touchstones,"  though  sometimes  examples 
rather  of  felicity  than  of  the  high  seriousness  of  poetry, 
have  all  this  clarity.  But  it  is  as  unjust  to  take  such 
single  lines  as  it  is  difficult  to  find  a  complete  lyric  poem 
that  has  in  all  its  lines  the  true  accent.  To  go  aside  for 
a  moment,  one  may  say  that  the  little  prayer  to  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  quoted  by  Dr.  Hyde  in  The  Religious  Songs  of 
Connacht  is  such,  and  such  that  old  English  carol  of 
the  Nativity  to  which  it  has  so  curious  a  resemblance. 
Though  full  of  this  gracious  clarity,  the  two  poems 
are  for  the  rest  slight.  The  English  poet  plays  with 

a  conceit : 

"  I  sing  of  a  maiden 

That  is   makeless  ; 
King  of  all  kings 
To  her  son  she  ches. 


LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

He  came  al  so  still, 
There  his  mother  was 

As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  grass. 

He  came  al  so  still 
To  his  mother's  hour, 

As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  flour. 

He  came  al  so  still 
There  his  mother  lay, 

As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  spray, 

Mother  and  maiden 

Was  never  none  but  she  ; 
Well  may  such  a  lady 

Goddes   mother   be.'1 


This  little  carol  is  duly  honoured  in  anthologies,  and 
praised  by  critics  as  a  matchless  specimen  of  lyric  simpli- 
city, yet  almost  casually  An  Craoibhin  quotes  a  poem 
as  simple  and  as  exquisite,  taken  from  the  lips  of  a  fisher- 
boy  in  Aran  of  Connacht : 

-A  ttltii|\e  r\A  ti5l^r» 

A  ttl-AtxMp  tthc  T)6, 
50  sciiifM-o  cu 

Av  mo  le-A    m6. 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  12$ 

CU  tn£ 
tJite  otc, 
cu  me 
if  co[\p. 


go  fAtt.dtAi'b  cu  me 
Aj\  mui|\  if  A\\  cip 

50  i\AtWtAi'6  cu  me 
At  teic  n 


Of  mo 

m 

tiom. 


(O  Mother  of  Graces,  O  Mother  of  the  Son  of 
God,  put  thou  me  on  the  way  of  my  welfare. 

Save  thou  me  from  every  ill.  Save  thou  me  both 
body  and  soul. 

Save  thou  me  on  land  and  on  sea.  Save  thou  me 
from  the  flag  of  pains. 

Be  the  guard  of  the  Angels  over  my  head,  God  before 
me  and  God  with  me). 

This  is  a  modern  poem.  Ancient  Irish  poetry  has 
many  such  pieces,  though  in  general  the  religious  verses 
are  more  woven,  so  to  say,  like  the  Even-Song  of  Saint 
Patrick  : 

"  May  the  holy  angels,  O  Christ,  son  of  the  living  God, 
Guard  our  sleep,  our  rest,  our  shining  bed. 


126  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

Let  them  reveal  true  visions  to  us  in  our  sleep, 
O  high  prince  of  the  universe,  O  great  Being  of  the 
mysteries. 

May  no  demons,  no  ill,  no  calamity  or  terrifying  dreams 
Disturb  our  rest,  our  willing,  prompt  repose. 

May  our  watch  be  holy,  our  work,  our  task, 

Our  sleep,  our  rest  without  let,  without  break."* 

/ 
It  is  in  the  little  quotations  and  poems  of  accident,  as  it 

were,  that  is  least  adorned  that  clear,  sincere,  colloquial 
statement.  These  for  all  of  us  express  things  with  the 
strange  Tightness  of  lyric  beauty,  once  and  for  all.  In 
the  Thesaurus  Palceohibernicus,  at  the  end  of  the  long 
Glosses,  one  finds  the  little  poem  written  on  the  margin 
of  a  page  in  the  St.  Gall  Priscian  : 

Domfarcai  fidbaidae  fdl, 

Fomchain   loid   luin   luad   nad   ctl        .    j 

The  modern  spirit  has  tried  to  invent  in  a  manner  a 
personality  for  the  monk  who  wrote  that,  interrupting 
his  copying  or  his  study  of  Priscian  to  listen  to  the  bird. 
Doctor  Sigerson  himself,  usually  most  faithful  of  trans- 
lators, has  added  something  in  the  last  lines  : 

"  May  God  on  high  thus  love  me 
Thus  approve  me,  all  unseen." 

*  Translation  in  Kuno  Meyer's  Ancient  Irish  Poetry. 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  127 

Miss  Eleanor  Hull  in  her  book  uses  not  Doctor  Sigerson's 
translation  but  one  of  her  own,  ending  also  : 

"  Within  my  wall  of  green 
My  God  shrouds  me,  all  unseen." 

There  is  no  "  thus  "  and  no  "  all  unseen  "  in  the  original. 
I  give  Whitley  Stokes*  translation  of  the  eight  lines  : 

"  A  hedge  of  trees  surrounds  me,  a  blackbird's  lay 
sings  to  me — praise  which  I  will  not  hide.  Above  my 
booklet,  the  lined  one,  the  trilling  of  the  birds  sings  to 
me.  In  a  grey  mantle  the  cuckoo  sings  to  me  from  the 
top  of  the  bushes.  May  the  Lord  protect  me  !  I  write 
well  under  the  greenwood.0 

This  is  the  poem  stripped  of  all  its  grace  of  verse. 
If  the  great  test  of  poetry  be,  as  I  have  suggested,  trans- 
lation or  transmission,  it  is  still  exquisite  ;  but  in  Irish 
it  has  something  that  not  even  the  best  verse  translation 
into  a  modern  language  can  give  it.  Alliteration  in  a 
language  like  English  is  different  from  the  alliteration 
of  this.  The  seven  syllables  to  the  line  of  an  exact 
English  version  would  not  have  the  fall  of  these  seven. 
English  rime  would  not  give  to  the  ear  these  rigidly 
governed  assonances. 

This  little  poem  is  useful  to  illustrate  points  of  criticism, 
but  is  not  a  specimen  of  the  best  ancient  Irish  poetry, 
nature  poetry.  No  other  early  literature  has  such  a  nature 


128  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

poetry,    poetry    so  full  of  delicate,  joyous  observation, 
so  wrought  with  delicate,  light  touch — 

"  Summer  is  come,  winter  is  gone  ;  twisted  hollies 
wound  the  hound.  The  blackbird  sings  a  full  strain, 
to  him  the  live  wood  is  a  heritage,  the  sad  angry  sea 
sleeps,  the  speckled  salmon  leaps. 

"  The  harp  of  the  forest  sounds  music,  the  sail  gathers- 
perfect  peace  ;  colour  has  settled  on  every  height,  haze 
on  the  lake  of  full  waters. 

•  •••••• 

"  Cold  till  Doom !  .  .  .  .  The  fish  of  Ireland 
are  roaming,  not  a  town  there  is  in  the  land,  not  a  bell 
is  heard,  and  no  crane  talks. 

"  When  the  wind  sets  from  the  north,  it  urges  the  dark 
fierce  waves,  surging  in  strife  against  the  wide  sky, 
listening  to  the  witching  song." 

"  It  is  characteristic  of  these  poems,"  says  Doctor 
Meyer,  "  that  in  none  of  them  do  we  get  an  elaborate 
or  sustained  description,  but  rather  a  succession  of  im- 
pressionist pictures  and  images.  The  half-said  thing 
to  them  is  dearest ;  they  avoid  the  obvious  and  the 
common-place."  They  do  better — they  avoid  the 
devious,  the  out  of  the  way,  and  the  thing  of  false 
imagination  . 

How  satisfying,  how  familiar,  and  yet  how  new  to 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  1 29 

us  in  literature  is  that  wonderful  enumeration  in  the 
colloquy  between  Marbhan  and  Guaire  : 

Mad  fri  samrad      suairc  sriobrat 

somblas  mblas, 
curar,  orMn,        foltain  glaise, 

glaine  glas, 

and  the  rest. 

"When    pleasant    summer    time  spreads   its  coloured 
mantle, 

Sweet-tasting  fragrance  ! 
Pignuts,  wild  marjoram,  green  leeks — 

Verdant  pureness  ! 

The  music  of  the  bright  red-breasted  men,* 

A  lovely  movement ! 
The  strain  of  the  thrush,  familiar  cuckoos 

Above  my  house, 

Swarms  of  bees  and  chafers,  the  little  musicians  of  the 
world, 

A  gentle  chorus  : 
Wild  geese  and  ducks,  shortly  before  summer's  end, — 

The  music  of  the  dark  torrent." 

Of  a  higher  mood  than  the  nature  poems  are  such  pieces 
as  that  which  Doctor  Meyer  calls  The  Tryst  after  Death, 
of  a  higher  mood  too  than  the  justly  praised  old  English 
ballads.  It  is  a  poem  of  the  ninth  century.  The  spirit 

*  Some  species  of  birds. 


130  LITERATURE   IN    IRELAND. 

of  the  slain  warrior  keeps  the  tryst  with  the  woman  for 
whom  he  has  died  : 

"  Hush,  woman,  do  not  speak  to  me  !    My  thoughts  are 

not  with  thee. 
My  thoughts  are  still  in  the  encounter  at  Feic. 

My  bloody  corpse  lies  by  the  side  of  the  Slope  of  the 

Two  Brinks  ; 
My  head  all  unwashed  is  among  the  warrior-bands  in 

fierce  slaughter. 

It  is  blindness  for  any  one  making  a  tryst  to  set  aside  the 

tryst  with  Death  : 
The  tryst  that  we  made  at  Claragh  has  been  kept  by  me 

in  pale  death. 
«••••• 

Some   one   will   at   all   times   remember   this   song  of 

Fothad  Canann  ; 
My  discourse  with  thee  shall  not  be  unrenowned,  if 

thou  remember  my  bequest. 

Since  my  grave  will  be  frequented,  let  a  conspicuous 

tomb  be  raised  ; 
Thy  trouble  for  thy  love  is  no  loss  of  labour. 

My  riddled  body  must  now  part  from  thee  a  while, 
my  soul  to  be  tortured  by  the  black  demon. 

Save  for  the  worship  of  Heaven's  king,  love  of  this  world 
is  folly. 

I  hear  the  dusky  ousel  that  sends  a  joyous  greeting  to  all 

the  faithful : 
My  speech,  my  shape  are  spectral — hush,  woman,  do  not 

speak  to  me  ! 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  131 

Of  one  other  old  poem  I  shall  speak  at  length.  It  is 
the  Lament  of  the  Old  Woman  of  Beare,  which  one  likens 
at  once  to  Les  Regrets  de  la  Belle  Heaulmiere.  A  de- 
tailed comparison  of  the  two,  however,  would  only  show 
to  us  again  the  difference  between  the  two  civilizations. 

La  belle  qui  fut  heaulmiere  is  a  courtesan  who  looks 
back  over  a  wanton  life  with  a  cry  of : 

Que  men  reste  il ?     Honte  et  pechie ! 

and  then  contrasts  all  her  lost  loveliness  with  the  disgrace 
of  her  body  in  old  age,  and  so,  with  other  old  women, 
regrets  the  past : 

Ainsi  le  bon  temps  regretons 

Et  jadis  fusmes  si  mignotes 
Ainsi  en  prent  a  mains  et  maintes. 

The  Lament  of  the  Old  Woman  of  Beare,  written  five 
hundred  years  before  Villon,  has  lines  very  like  the  French 
poem  : 

"  My  arms  when  they  are  seen 
Are  bony  and  thin." 

But  how  different  is  the  whole  life  of  the  poem,  which 
is  an  allegory  and  a  miracle.  "  The  reason  why  she  was 
called  the  Old  Woman  of  Beare  "  (I  quote  Kuno  Meyer's 
translation  again),  "  was  that  she  had  fifty  foster-children 
in  Beare.  She  had  seven  periods  of  youth  one  after  ano- 
ther, so  that  every  man  who  had  lived  with  her  came  to 


132  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

die  of  old  age,  and  her  grandsons  and  great-grandsons 
were  tribes  and  races.  For  a  hundred  years  she  wore 
the  veil  which  Cummin  had  blessed  upon  her  head. 
Thereupon  old  age  and  infirmity  came  to  her.  'Tis  then 
she  said  : 

'  Ebb-tide  to  me  as  of  the  sea  ! 
Old  age  causes  me  reproach. 

My  body  with  bitterness  has  dropt 
Towards  the  abode  we  know  : 
When  the  Son  of  God  deems  it  time 
Let  Him  come  to  deliver  His  behest. 

The  wave  of  the  great  sea  talks  aloud, 
Winter  has  arisen  : 
Fermuid  the  son  of  Mugh  to-day 
I  do  not  expect  on  a  visit. 

I  know  what  they  are  doing  : 

They  row  and  row  across 

The  reeds  of  the  Ford  of  Alma — 

Cold  is  the  dwelling  where  they  sleep. 

'Tis,  O  my  God  ! 

To  me  to-day,  whatever  will  come  of  it. 
I  must  take  my  garment  even  in  the  sun  : 
The  time  is  at  hand  that  shall  renew  me/  ' 

All  through  the  poem  is  kept  the  image  of  the  tide  : 

"  The  flood-wave 

And  the  second  ebb-tide — 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  133 

They  have  all  reached  me, 
So  that  I  know  them  well. 

The  flood-wave 

Will  not  reach  the  silence  of  my  kitchen  : 
Though  many  are  my  company  in  darkness, 
A  hand  has  been  laid  upon  them  all. 

O  happy  isle  of  the  great  sea 

Which  the  flood  reaches  after  the  ebb  ! 

For  me 

Flood  does  not  come  after  ebb." 

In  dealing  with  these  poems  I  have  avoided  all  reference 
to  metrics.  I  might  indeed  have  added  metrical  study 
of  the  poems  to  the  things  mentioned  above  as  having 
wronged  appreciation  for  the  poetry.  As  I  have  said  in 
an  earlier  study,  too  much  ado  has  been  made  of  Gaelic 
metres  ;  or  rather,  for  want  of  due  criticism  and  appre- 
ciation, the  good  metrical  consideration  has  won  undue 
prominence.  Many  in  consequence  think  that  Gaelic 
poetry  is  all  a  chinoiserie  of  intricate  word-weaving,  with 
no  message  that  matters.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that 
the  verse-forms  are  full  of  subtle  beauty,  that  they  are 
of  great  variety,  and  that,  as  Eugene  O' Curry  pointed 
out  long  ago,  the  rhythmical  structure  of  many  of  them 
exactly  corresponds  with  the  structure  of  Irish  musical 
compositions  of  the  highest  antiquity.  Of  the  old  claim 
that  to  Ireland  Europe  owes  rime  I  have  written  else- 


134  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

where,*  also  of  the  nature  of  assonance,  which  is  in 
Irish,  as  the  late  Professor  Atkinson  of  Dublin  University 
said,  "  not  imperfect  rime,  but  something  far  richer 
than  rime,  and  admitting  of  a  far  more  complex  series 
of  harmonies."  I  can  the  better  omit  consideration 
of  this  because  the  work  has  been  so  well  done  by 
many  able  hands  in  our  day  —  by  Meyer,  by  Hyde,  by 
Sigerson,  most  notably.  For  the  rest  no  one  need 
fear  not  to  appreciate  the  best  of  the  old  lyrics  for 
ignorance  of  the  rules  of  their  verse.  The  one  simple 
reading  rule  laid  down  by  MacNeill  in  his  Intro- 
duction to  Duanaire  Finn  will  suffice  for  these  :  "  The 
reader  of  Modern  Irish  should  bear  in  mind,  in  read- 
ing Old  and  Middle  Irish  poetry,  that  the  modern 
accentuation  of  one  syllable  in  each  word  must  be  care- 
fully avoided  if  it  is  desired  to  appreciate  the  metrical 
value  and  rhythm  of  the  poems.  All  syllables,  in  what- 
ever position,  and  however  lightly  accented  in  modern 
pronunciation,  must  be  regarded  as  equally  accented  in 
the  olden  poetry.  Thus  in  the  first  stanza  of  the  Duanaire, 

Got  twh  fencuf  feme  firm 
l\e  f  e  coige-Accx*  m 


prm  and  Oilsirm  should  be  read  so  as  to  rime  fully 
The  second  syllable  in  U-Ailsirm  should  be  accented  as 


*Thomas  Campion  and  the  Art  of  English  Poetry.  Chapter  IX. 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  135 

strongly  as  the  first,  not  lightly  passed  over  as  in  the 
modern  pronunciation.  The  same  applies  to  all  syllables 
in  every  verse,  no  less  than  the  riming  syllables.  Again, 
there  are  no  slurred  consonants  making  one  syllable  of 
two,  as  at  present  pronounced." 

Most  of  the  ancient  lyrics  have  been  gleaned  from  old 
manuscripts  here  and  there  in  Europe,  written  on  the 
margins  of  grammars  and  bibles,  or  copied,  a  few  together, 
in  books  of  miscellanies.  Some  of  them  are  embedded 
in  the  prose  sagas,  which  are  the  most  important  reliques 
of  ancient  Irish  literature.  In  addition  to  the  two 
epic  cycles,  that  of  the  Tain  Bo  Cuailgne  (The  Cattle 
Raid  of  Cooley)  and  that  of  Oisin  and  the  Fiana,  there 
are  great  numbers  of  other  tales  and  colloquies.  To 
learn  something  of  the  setting  of  the  lyrics  go  to  that 
treasure-house  of  Old  Irish,  Thesaurus  Palceohibernicus, 
edited  by  Whitley  Stokes.  Read  the  introduction  to  the 
first  volume,  and  all  the  end  of  the  second.  I  do  not 
know  a  more  fascinating  book  unless  it  be  the  Silva 
Gadelica  of  Standish  Hayes  O'Grady,  or  the  Duanaire 
Finn  of  Eoin  MacNeill,  or  the  Buile  Suibhne  of  J.  G. 
O'Keeffe,  or  some  other  of  the  volumes  published  by  the 
Irish  Texts  Society.  No  mere  description  of  the  contents 
of  these  is  possible.  They  introduce  the  reader  into  the 
old  world  of  Ireland,  Irish  story,  Irish  poetry,  Irish 
study  They  introduce  him,  too,  to  the  work  of  the 


136  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

men  who  in  our  time  have  brought  great  learning  to  the 
service  of  Irish  studies.  The  writers  mentioned  hitherto 
in  this  essay  and  the  workers  of  the  periodical  Eriu — 
men  like  Osborn  Bergin  and  R.  I.  Best  in  this  country 
and  a  great  line  of  University  professors  of  Irish  on  the 
continent,  especially  in  Germany — sustain  the  high  hope 
and  promise  of  the  future.* 

The  future,  however,  from  present  signs,  does  not 
seem  likely  to  run  on  the  wheels  of  old  learning.  I  pre- 
sided this  evening  at  a  meeting  of  the  Gaelic  Society 
in  University  College  at  which  Syndicalism  was  discussed 
in  Irish.  The  prose  of  the  original  paper  on  the  subject 
was  a  model  of  style,  clear,  free  from  all  ambiguity,  with 
rhythm  used  for  the  purpose  of  emphasis — far  finer  than 
most  similar  College  society  papers  in  English.  The 
writer  of  this  and  the  best  of  the  subsequent  speakers 
dispensed  with  complicated  and  derived  terms  and  went 
to  the  root  of  the  matter,  making  their  meaning  plain 
enough  to  be  understood  by  simple  men.  To  me  the  most 


*Eoin  MacNeill  is  professor  of  Early  and  Mediaeval  Irish 
History,  Osborn  Bergin  of  Karly  and  Mediaeval  Irish  Language 
and  Literature,  Douglas  Hyde  of  Modern  Irish,  and  R.  A.  S. 
Macalister  of  Celtic  Archaeology  at  University  College,  Dublin. 
The  work  of  Professor  Macalister  in  the  region  of  Irish  art 
is  of  as  great  interest  and  importance  as  that  of  any  of  his 
colleagues  in  literature  and  language.  George  Sigerson,  M.D., 
is  also  a  professor  of  University  College,  but  of  a  different 
faculty. 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  137 

interesting  thing  was  the  difference  between  the  sentences 
of  these  and  the  sentences  of  the  other  students,  whose 
thought  is  still  in  English.  It  was  as  if  there  were  two 
ends  to  each  statement,  as  if  the  Irish  thinkers  took  one 
and  the  English  thinkers  the  other.  In  English,  voice 
stress  is  necessary  to  the  meaning.  The  emphasis  may 
be  thrown  to  the  end  of  the  phrase.  The  better  Irish 
speakers  in  the  debate  this  evening  might  have  dispensed 
with  stress.  In  speaking  of  a  recent  strike  one  speaker, 
whose  thought  was  of  the  English  order,  said  T)o  bi  n,A 
j?ifv  btuilce  (the  men  were  beaten),  literally,  "  were,  the 
men,  beaten."  One  of  the  Irish  order  said  T)o  bu-Ai'oe.A'o 
AJ\  An  tucc  oibpe  (the  men  were  beaten),  literally,  "won 
was  it,  on  the  workers,"  or  rather  "  victory  was  won, 
over  the  party  of  labour."  The  speakers  of  the  Irish  order 
said  more  directly  and  more  fully  what  they  meant  and 
they  marshalled  their  thoughts  in  the  more  natural 
sequence.  Here  then  was  a  modern  subject  giving 
opportunity  to  Irish  speakers  to  express  themselves  freshly 
and  strongly  and  yet  in  the  good  traditional  manner. 
So,  as  I  have  said  before,  the  literature  of  to-morrow  will 
be  in  terms  of  the  life  of  to-morrow  ;  and  yet  it  is  possible 
that  here  we  may  resume  a  broken  tradition  and  make 
a  literature  in  consonance  with  our  past.  Our  nation 
is  small.  The  deeds  of  a  few  men  who  see  clearly,  who 
know  surely,  and  who  act  definitely,  count  for  much. 


138  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

We  can  be  concentrated  into  a  little  clan  ;  and  he  who 
makes  music  for  his  little  clan  makes  music  for  all  the 
world.  The  greatest  danger  is  from  our  own  criticism 
and  from  our  own  bilingualism. 

It  is  unfortunate  to  a  degree  that  while  original  literature 
in  Ireland  is  still  but  stammering,  criticism  already  speaks 
with  full  voice,  almost  too  fluently,  too  loudly.  It  is 
more  unfortunate  still  that  this  full  voice  should  some- 
times shout  down  the  word  of  youthful  enthusiasm  and 
admiration.  Criticism  here  is  of  European  stature.  It 
sometimes  takes  advantage  of  its  height  to  push  through 
the  ranks  of  the  ungrown  and  to  issue  commands  from 
the  front.  Its  proper  place  is  the  rear.  It  comes  duly 
and  comes  usefully  in  the  wake  of  other  forms  of  literature, 
of  lyric  poetry,  of  epic,  of  drama,  even  of  prose  fiction, 
of  the  essay  and  of  oratory.  The  fact  of  the  matter  is 
that  this  criticism  of  ours  is  an  alien,  an  immigrant,  or  at 
least  a  cuckoo.  An  Irish  poet,  if  he  be  individual,  if  he 
be  original,  if  he  be  national,  speaks,  almost  stammers, 
in  one  of  the  two  fresh  languages  of  this  country — in 
Irish  (modern  Irish,  newly  schooled  by  Europe),  or 
in  Anglo-Irish,  English  as  we  speak  it  in  Ireland,  a 
language  yet  unspoiled  by  the  over-growths  of  litera- 
ture. Such  an  Irish  poet  can  still  express  himself  in 
the  simplest  terms  of  life  and  of  the  common  furniture 
of  life. 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  139 

"  Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 
And  steps  of  virgin  liberty," 

sings  Wordsworth,  apostle  of  simplicity  in  diction.     (I 
quote  at  random.) 

"  She  carries  in  the  dishes 
And  lays  them  in  a  row," 

sings  W.  B.  Yeats. 

"  I  look  for  ghosts,  but  none  will  force 
Their  way  to  me," 

cries  the  mother  in  Wordsworth's  poem. 

"  Mavourneen  is  going 
From  me  and  from  you, 

From  the  reek  of  the  smoke 
And  cold  of  the  floor, 
And  the  peering  of  things 
Across  the  half-door," 

cries  the  mother  in  a  poem  of  Padraic  Colum's. 

Of  course  Wordsworth  has  things  as  bald  and  as  simple 
as  any  Irish  poet  could  write  ;  but  they  are  not  the  rule 
in  his  successful  poems  ;  they  are  not  always  his  best 
expression,  his  natural  expression  ;  they  are  often  the 
worse  for  being  the  cries  of  a  conscious  literary  reaction, 
of  a  revival,  of  a  return  to  simplicity.  In  Ireland  we 
are  still  at  simple  beginnings. 

And  we  are  beginning  in  Irish  as  well  as  in  English. 


14°  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

Compare  with  Matthew  Arnold's  "  unplumb'd,  salt, 
estranging  sea  "  —  a  phrase  English,  modern,  typical, 
beautiful  —  these  lines  of  an  Irish  folk-poem,  a  century 
old  or  more,  but  still  natural  and  of  the  same  accent  as 
the  latest  word  of  Irish  poetry  : 

tTlo  bf\6n  AJA  An 
1    e 


(My  grief  on  the  sea,  it  is  it  that  is  big). 

All  this  shall  be  granted  to  you,  says  a  critic,  but  Irish, 
Gaelic,  cannot  go  further,  or  at  least  cannot  go  aside  from 
this,  without  violating  the  genius  and  the  sense  of  the 
language.  This  Gaelic  League  Irish,  says  the  critic,  is 
full  of  awful  barbarisms.  Gaelic  League,  Connradh  na 
Gaedhilge  !  Connradh  is  an  agreement,  a  league  between 
parties,  not  a  league  in  the  sense  of  a  body  of  people 
banded  together  with  a  General  Secretary.  The  English 
words  "  league  "  and  "  covenant  "  came,  in  the  phrase 
"  Solemn  League  and  Covenant,"  to  be  used  of  the  organ- 
isation ;  but  we  must  not  let  Irish  drift  into  that  loose 
use  of  words.  Saoghal  in  Eirinn  is  Father  Dineen's 
translation  of  "  life  in  Ireland,"  and  he  ought  to  have 
known  better  than  to  use  saoghal,  akin  to  the  Latin 
saeculum,  for  "  life  "  in  that  sense.  The  grammarian 
in  me,  the  purist,  approves  of  the  critic  crying  this  ; 
but  another  man  in  me  cries  :  O  happy  Chaucer  !  O 


IRISH    LITERATURE.  14! 

happy  all  ye  who  used  words  as  you  could  take  them, 
testing  them  only  by  their  current  value  ! 

And  Anglo-Irish  work  does  not  escape.  I  hear  already 
the  mutter  of  anger  against  the  very  name,  Anglo-Irish, 
and  against  the  lines  I  have  quoted  from  W.  B.  Yeats 
and  Padraic  Colum.  Just  narrow  peasant  English  and 
nothing  more,  says  someone — No,  I  wrong  criticism. 
The  criticism  to  which  I  have  been  referring  just  now 
has  nothing  to  do  with  these  opinions.  There  is  a  school 
of  criticism  in  Ireland,  a  school  that  knows  the  work  of 
the  finest  critics  in  the  world,  and  knows  too,  what  is  more 
important,  the  finest  literature  in  the  world.  This,  when 
dealing  with  literature  in  general,  adds  to  the  store  of  fine 
critical  work.  This  at  times  encourages  and  approves 
good  original  Irish  work.  I  think  it  unfortunate,  however, 
that  it  should  have  grown  with,  or  indeed  before,  the 
original  work.  Dealing  with  the  monuments  of  the  older 
literatures — English,  French,  and  the  like — this  criticism 
knows  its  place,  its  bearings,  its  conditions.  Dealing 
with  a  naissant  literature  or  with  two  naissant  literatures, 
with  literature  still  at  the  lyric  stage,  it  looks  over  its 
shoulder,  as  it  were.  Its  neck  is  awry.  Its  eyes  are 
twisted  round.  Its  feet  turn  from  their  known  way  and 
stumble.  When  it  does  get  a  clear  view  of  its  object, 
it  misses  the  shapes  and  forms  it  saw  in  other  lands  and 
expresses  its  disappointment. 


142  LITERATURE   IN    IRELAND. 

Ireland  is  not  the  only  country  that  suffers  so  to-day 
America  also  has  a  full-grown  criticism  and  a  baby 
literature.  Something  of  the  same  relation  exists  between 
the  two  there  as  in  Ireland. 

Of  course  criticism,  this  use  or  this  abuse  of  criticism, 
is  not  going  to  change  what  seems  to  be  the  natural  law 
of  growth,  development,  progress,  ever  recurring.  The 
new  literatures  will  grow  in  the  due  way,  criticism  or  no 
criticism.  And  indeed  it  may  be  said  that  the  effect  of 
criticism  on  the  author  is  quite  negligible.  Its  effect  on 
the  audience  is  not  negligible.  Growing  naturally  with 
a  native  literature,  dealing  with  a  native  literature  in  terms 
of  the  life  of  which  that  literature  is  an  expression,  an 
interpretation,  an  illumination,  it  is  good.  Coming  from 
abroad,  full  grown  and  intolerant  of  youth,  it  may  here 
be  a  false  prophet. 

Poets — and  it  is  with  poets  we  are  most  concerned 
in  a  youthful  literature — have  in  general  to  wait  long  for 
recognition  :  those  that  speak  with  a  strange  accent  are 
not  understood  at  once  by  all.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  delay 
of  this  recognition  should  be  lengthened  unnaturally. 
The  formulating  of  rules,  even  of  just  rules,  the  setting 
up  of  standards,  even  of  true  standards,  the  preaching  of 
purism  in  language,  the  blame  of  innovation  and  all  such 
things,  do  lengthen  the  delay. 

I  take  for  illustration  of  this  danger  of  alien  criticism 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  143 

a  book  of  original  Irish  poems,  published  in  1914, 
Suantraidhe  agus  Goltraidhe  by  Padraic  Mac  Piarais.  I 
do  not  offer  my  criticism  of  criticism  here  as  an  apology 
for  the  book  :  the  book  needs  no  apology.  It  needs 
appreciation  and  praise  ;  and  on  account  of  our  present 
state  of  criticism  it  may  go  without  both.  I  should  like 
to  clear  the  way  for  a  new  criticism,  a  simple  criticism  in 
terms  of  a  new  literature.  I  shall  therefore  merely  offer 
samples  of  the  poetry  published  in  this  book  with  the 
briefest  of  introductions.  I  think  them  good  poetry  and 
true  poetry. 

The  book  is  one  of  the  first  books  of  the  new  literature. 
Irish  has  produced  very  little  original  personal  work 
since  the  beginning  of  the  revival,  and  the  few  good 
books  that  have  appeared  have  met  with  an  ungracious 
reception.  As  the  adherents  of  the  old  Saxon  mode 
must  have  looked  on  the  English  work  of  Chaucer, 
the  adherents  of  earlier  Irish  look  on  work  such  as  this. 
Written  in  English,  it  might  well  have  had  a  sure  success, 
like  that  of  Padraic  Colum's  Wild  Earth,  from  which  I 
have  quoted  above.  Being  written  in  Irish,  it  is  likely, 
on  the  one  hand,  to  be  blamed  for  having  something  of 
the  note  of  recent  Anglo-Irish  literature,  and  on  the 
other  hand  to  be  ignored  by  those  who  appreciate  that 
same  Anglo-Irish  literature  and  who  have  remained 
ignorant  of  Irish.  The  book  is  not  Chaucerian  in  volume. 


144  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

It  is  one  of  the  shortest  books  of  poems  I  know  :  a  dozen 
lyrics  in  all.  It  is  not,  for  all  I  have  said  on  the  point, 
so  different  from  central  modern  Irish  work  as  to  incur 
the  hostility  of  the  purists  ;  and  indeed  a  part  of  its 
difference  consists  in  its  going  back  to  some  of  the  older 
forms  of  Irish  verse  and  continuing  them  in  modern 
speech. 

The  title,  Songs  of  Sleep  and  of  Sorrow  (Lullabies  and 
Keens),  promises  tender,  serious  poetry.  The  note  of  the 
book  is  sadness  ;  but  in  the  most  solemn  poems  there  is 
exultation  too.  For  the  rest,  as  a  farce  can  scarcely 
be  too  amusing,  too  funny,  or  a  tragedy  too  tragic,  so  a 
solemn  poem  or  a  book  of  solemn  poems  can  scarcely 
be  too  solemn.  As  I  am  writing  in  English,  to  introduce 
a  book  of  Irish  poems  in  which  there  is  not  a  word  of 
English,  I  am  going  frankly  to  use  English  throughout, 
even  to  translate  literally  the  poems  which  I  quote.  The 
language  of  the  poems  is  so  simple,  the  phrases  so  pri- 
mitive in  construction,  that  anyone  who  goes  to  the 
originals  can  easily,  with  the  help  of  a  dictionary,  spell 
out  the  meaning.  The  verse  forms  are  so  straight  and 
so  strong  that  anyone  can  know  the  movement,  the  beat 
of  the  rhythm. 

Lullaby  of  a  Woman  of  the  Mountain  and  A  Woman 
of  the  Mountain  Keening  her  Sont  the  first  two  poems, 
are  in  the  tradition  of  the  songs  that  have  come  down 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  145 

unwritten  from  mother  to  daughter.  I  translate  from 
the  former  : 

"  O  little  head  of  gold  !     O  candle  of  my  house  ! 
Thou  wilt  guide  all  who  travel  this  country. 

Be  quiet,  O  house  !    and  O  little  grey  mice, 
Stay  at  home  to-night  in  your  hidden  lairs  ! 

O  moths  on  the  window,  fold  your  wings  ! 
Cease  your  droning,   O  little  black  chafers  ! 

O  plover  and  O  curlew,  over  my  house  do  not  travel ! 
Speak  not,  O  barnacle-goose,  going  over  the  mountain 
here  ! 

O  creatures  of  the  mountain,  that  wake  so  early, 
Stir  not  to-night  till  the  sun  whitens  over  you  !  " 

The  monotonous  repetition  of  the  one  rime  throughout 
and  the  swaying  flow  of  the  verse  help  to  make  this 
poem  a  perfect  lullaby. 

With  the  fourth  begins  a  series  of  personal  or  dramatic 
lyrics.  Some  of  them  do  not  well  bear  translation. 
Judged  by  present  English  standards,  which  are  hostile 
to  sentiment,  the  mere  words  would  give  a  false  idea  of 
the  originals.  One,  the  shortest  of  all,  runs  another  risk 
in  translation.  It  is  one  of  two  poems  to  Death  : 

"  Long  (seems)  to  me  your  coming, 

Old  herald  of  God, 
O  friend  of  friends, 

To  part  me  from  my  pain  ! 


146  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

O  syllable  on  the  wind  ! 

O  footstep  not  heavy  ! 
O  hand  in  the  darkness  ! 

Your  coming  seems  to  me  long." 

Here  is  another  of  this  series  : 

"  I  have  not  gathered  gold  ; 
The  fame  that  I  won  perished  ; 
In  love  I  found  but  sorrow 
That  withered  my  life. 

Of  wealth  or  of  glory 

I  shall  leave  nothing  behind  me 

(I  think  it,  O  God,  enough  !) 

But  my  name  in  the  heart  of  a  child/' 

The  last  poem  I  translate  in  full.     In  English  its  title 
might  be  Ideal : 

"  Naked  I  saw  thee, 

O  beauty  of  beauty  ! 
And  I  blinded  my  eyes 

For  fear  I  should  flinch. 

I  heard  thy  music, 

O   melody   of  melody ! 
And  I  shut  my  ears 

For  fear  I  should  fail. 

I  kissed  thy  lips, 

O  sweetness  of  sweetness  ! 
And  I  hardened  my  heart 

For  fear  of  my  ruin. 


IRISH  LITERATURE.  147 

I  blinded  my  eyes, 

And  my  ears  I  shut, 
I  hardened  my  heart 

And  my  love  I  quenched. 

I  turned  my  back 

On  the  dream  I  had  shaped, 
And  to  this  road  before  me 

My  face  I  turned. 

I  set  my  face 

To  the  road  here  before  me, 
To  the  work  that  I  see, 

To  the  death  that  I  shall  get." 

One  need  not  ask  if  it  be  worth  while  having  books  of 
such  poetry.  The  production  of  this  is  already  a  success 
for  the  new  literature. 

In  addition  to  this  danger  of  criticism  of  which  I 
have  been  speaking — an  outside  criticism — there  is  the 
danger  to  poets  here  now  of  too  much  self-criticism — a 
natural  and  good  and  even  necessary  thing  in  a  mature 
literature.  It  brings  a  self-consciousness  that  gives 
pause  to  the  impulse  which  creates,  or  which  would 
create  spontaneously  without  taking  thought.  Once 
the  impulse  pauses  it  misses  its  mark. 

Then  there  is  the  danger  of  too  easy  a  verse  music. 
A  language  that  is  so  musical  in  its  words  as  Irish  is  diffi- 
cult for  the  best  verse.  In  languages  like  French  and 


148  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

English,  prose  phrases  are  continually  harsh  to  the  ear, 
and  words  that  sing  of  themselves  are  easily  recognised 
as  verse.  This  is  one  of  the  great  advantages  that  verse 
has  in  such  languages  ;  it  stands  apart  from  prose  ;  its 
words  have  a  distinct  music.  Phrases  like  A.  E.  Hous- 
man's  : 

"  In  summer  time  on  Bredon," 

or  Paul  Verlaine's  : 

Mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu,  la  vie  est  Id, 

Simple  et  tranquilte  ; 
Cette  paisible  rumeur-ld 

Vient  de  la  ville, 

or  even  Shakespeare's : 

"  Light  thickens,  and  the  crow 
Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood," 

owe  at  least  half  their  beauty  to  the  fact  that  they  are 
distinct  verse  phrase,  however  direct,  not  to  be  mistaken 
for  the  prose  expression  of  the  same  ideas.  In  Irish 
prose  there  is  still  the  richness  of  open  vowels  and  the 
rhythmic  fall  of  words,  not  so  full  and  beautiful,  indeed, 
as  in  the  verse,  but  yet  not  so  distinctly  apart  as  in  the 
languages  from  which  I  have  quoted.  The  quality  of 
form  that  most  frequently  raises  Irish  verse  to  the  height 
of  poetry  is  not  beauty  of  verse  music,  but  re  traint, 
the  severe  grace.  A  song  like  Seaghan  Lloyd's  Bean 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  149 

an  Leasa  (Cotp  tex\px\  'p  m6  50  ti-u.Ai5ne,Ac)  is  full  of 
rich  music,  with  rimes  and  chimes  and  contrasts,  but  it 
is  sheer  waste  of  exuberant  melody  on  a  barren  theme. 
Sometimes  masters  of  verse-craft  in  the  harsher  languages 
link  words  in  this  luscious  way  of  sweetness,  but  their 
verses  are  then  clever  achievements  rather  than  poems. 
Verlaine  claimed,  indeed,  that  this  is  the  function  of 
verse — De  la  musique  avant  toute  chose — and  so,  no 
doubt,  could  murmur  over  and  over  with  great  satis- 
faction those  beautiful  lines  of  his  which  imitate  the 
sobbing  of  a  violin  : 

Les  sanglots  longs 
Des  violons 

De  I'automne 
Blessent  mon  coeur 
D'une  langueur 

Monotone. 

But  these  lines,  gracious  though  they  be  and  replete 
with  one  of  the  sweet  minor  qualities  of  poetry,  are  no 
more  fine  poetry  than  Bean  an  Leasa.  This  exuberance 
which  becomes  mere  sound  and  a  waste  of  melody  is  a 
sin  against  the  medium  of  poetry  which  is  not  chanted 
song  but  expressive  language.  True  poetry  always  finds 
its  expression  in  beautiful  moving  words.  Its  effect  is 
marred  if  empty  phrases,  however  melodious,  are  added. 
To  take  a  simple  example,  the  first  two  verses  of  the  better 


150  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

version  of  7s  Truagh  gan  Mise  i  Sasana  are  essential 
poetry  ;  the  three  that  are  tagged  on  in  the  song-books 
are  no  such  thing.  Swinburne  praises  a  lyric  poet  who 
knew  "  to  sing  and  not  to  say,  without  a  glimpse  of  wit 
or  a  flash  of  eloquence."  The  poet  of  these  eight  lines 
had  that  knowledge  : 


rmr-e 
t)tnne  ^rhxSin  A?  £ij\inn  liom, 

t1<3  xMTltUg  1  t-A|\  T1A  JM1f\F5e, 

An  ^ic  A  gcAillceAp  n^  mitce  tong. 


An  s^ot  A^tif  .An 

t)eit  Jino  feotAtb  6  ctimn  50  cumn  — 
1f,  A  Hi,  50  f  eot^it)  Uu  mif  e 

1nf  ^n  -die  A  bpuil  mo  5^-6  'n-x*  luige. 


This  is  a  perfect   lyric,  with  the   directness   and  suffi- 
ciency of  poetry. 

"  'Tis  a  pity  I'm  not  in  England 

And  one  from  Ireland  there  with  me, 
Or  out  where  the  ships  in  thousands 
Are  lost  in  the  midst  of  the  sea. 

The  wind  and  the  rain  of  the  ocean 
To  be  guiding  me  over  the  waves  of  the  deep, 

And,  O  King  !  that  Thou  mightst  guide  me 
To  the  place  where  my  love  doth  sleep  !  " 

The  three  stanzas  that  follow  say  the  conventional  things, 
of  a  heart  broken  in  a  hundred  parts  and  a  dream  of  lost 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  151 

love.  I  believe  they  were  added  by  some  one  who  thought 
the  song  too  short,  and  who  found  it  easy  in  Irish  to 
string  on  the  sweet  empty  lines. 

A  kindred  danger  that  has  beset  the  Irish  less  perhaps 
than  the  Anglo-Irish  poet  is  that  of  rhetoric,  the  expression 
of  the  collective  emotion  rather  than  the  individual,  that 
which  has  given  a  small  number  of  the  greatest  odes  to 
the  world  and  most  of  the  poorest  poems.  The  collective 
is  in  general  enemy  of  true  sincerity.  Propaganda  has 
rarely  produced  a  fine  poem.  A  great  hymn,  whether 
of  religion  or  patriotism,  is  rarely  other  than  the  cry 
of  a  poet  calling  to  his  God  or  his  country  as  if  he  alone 
experienced  the  emotion  that  he  sings,  though  poignantly 
mindful  that  many  felt  it  in  a  better  day.  Gaelic  Ireland 
will  have  a  great  anthem  when,  in  some  great  stress,  a  poet, 
using  Irish  naturally  in  all  senses,  will  feel  his  patriotism 
as  if  he  alone  felt  it,  and  utter  it  unconscious  of  propaganda 
for  himself.  The  poet  once  again  is  his  own  first  audience. 
His  poetry  is  a  matter  between  himself  and  himself.  If 
others  afterwards  come  and  share  his  joy,  the  gain  is 
theirs. 

So  much  for  the  lyric  poetry,  or  rather  for  scattered 
glimpses  of  it  far  and  near.  I  have  not,  of  course,  at- 
tempted to  do  more  than  indicate  points  of  interest  and 
significance.  Every  century  has  had  its  poets  and  its 
schools  and  its  movements.  Of  lyric  poetry  there  ha3 


152  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

been  a  constant,  though  at  times  a  narrow  stream.  The 
libraries  of  Europe  are  still  giving  up  stores  of  poetry  long 
forgotten.  Old  men  and  women  all  round  the  Gaelic 
crescent  of  Ireland  are  still  telling  out  lovely  lyrics  of 
known  and  unknown  authorship.  The  quest  of  such 
is  adventurous  and  romantic,  only  less  so  perhaps  than  the 
quest  of  living  but  forgotten  poets  or  of  the  traces  of  poets 
once  of  great  fame  in  their  clan  and  still  remembered  by 
the  living.  Douglas  Hyde  has  been  able  to  discover  not 
only  the  poems  of  Raftery,  whose  word  seemed  a  wander- 
ing voice  far  off,  but  a  man  who  assisted  at  his  burial,  and 
a  whole  body  of  tradition  about  him.  Mr.  P.  H.  Pearse 
and  others  who  undertook  the  publication  of  the  poems 
of  Colm  Wallace,  were  able  a  few  years  ago  to  discover 
not  only  the  work,  but  the  man  himself,  thought  dead 
for  many  years  but  actually  living,  a  centenarian  in 
Oughterard  workhouse.*  Robert  Weldon,  the  poet  of  the 
Comeraghs,  seemed  to  us  in  Dublin  some  years  ago  like 
a  visitant  from  the  old  Gaelic  world. 

So  much  for  the  poetry 

Of  the  novel  and  the  modern  essay,  of  which  we  have 
had  many  examples  of  late,  I  dare  not  speak.  Irish  prose 

*Mr.  Pearse's  committee  took  the  poet  out  of  the  workhouse, 
but  subsequently  had  to  let  him  return  to  it  as  a  paying  patient 
at  his  urgent  request.  He  died  at  the  age  of  a  hundred  and 
ten. 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  153 

I  believe  to  be  a  finer  vehicle  than  English  prose.  The 
poise  and  the  concision  of  the  idiomatic  Irish  sentence 
makes  our  long  series  of  words  in  English  seem  weak  by 
comparison.  But  that  is  a  matter  of  language.  Of  the 
actual  work  of  the  acknowledged  master  of  Modern  Irish 
prose,  Canon  Peter  O'Leary,  one  does  not  know  well  what 
to  think.  His  novels  and  his  plays  should  not  be  subjected 
to  this  outside  criticism.  Of  his  use  of  his  medium  and 
of  his  descriptive  power  one  can  write  nothing  but  praise 
and  quote  examples  which  must  suffice  for  all.  I  give  a 
translation  of  a  passage  from  his  novel  Seadna,  as  more 
representative  of  the  new  literature  than  his  sermons,  his 
plays,  or  his  adaptations  of  old  tales. 

It  was  a  wedding  feast.  One  of  the  pipers  knew  the 
Fairy  Music.  He  would  often  play  it  to  himself ;  but 
it  was  very  hard  to  make  him  play  it  when  asked  by 
others.  He  said  that  it  was  not  right  to  play  it  in 
the  presence  of  mortals1— it  was  too  eerie.  On  this 
occasion,  after  much  pressing  by  all  the  guests,  the  piper 
drank  some  of  the  wine  of  the  king  and  consented  to 
play  the  Fairy  Music. 

"  He  tuned  his  pipes.  He  filled  the  bag  with  air.  The 
company  listened  as  though  they  had  neither  soul  nor 
breath.  Soon  there  was  heard,  as  it  were,  a  soft,  mur- 
muring sound,  circling  the  house  without.  Then  the 
people  thought  a  breeze  was  blowing,  with  the  murmur- 


154  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

ing,  and  that  it  was  the  breeze  which  caused  the  murmur- 
ing and  not  the  pipes.  Thereafter  passed  a  pleasant 
melody  through  the  murmuring,  and  both  melody  and 
murmuring  came  into  the  house.  The  murmuring  in- 
creased, and  there  arose,  as  it  were,  a  trembling  and  a 
swaying  in  its  sound.  Soon  a  second  sound  was  heard, 
trembling  and  swaying  like  the  first,  whilst  the  sweet 
melody  was  heard  through  them  both,  none  of  the  three 
obscuring  either  of  the  other  two,  but  each  of  the  three 
aiding  the  others,  so  that  the  melody  was  the  better  for 
the  murmurings  and  the  murmurings  all  the  sweeter 
for  the  melody.  Anon  there  spoke  a  third  sound,  tremb- 
ling and  swaying  with  pleasant  music  through  it  of  its 
own.  That  third  sound  startled  all  who  were  there. 
They  would  swear  it  was  a  human  voice. 

"  Then  came  as  it  were  a  torrent  of  melody,  the  most 
delicious,  the  sweetest,  the  gentlest,  the  most  soothing 
that  the  people  there  had  ever  heard,  and  it  mingled  with 
the  murmurings  and  with  the  sound  like  the  human 
voice  and  the  sound  that  was  like  the  blowing  of  the 
breeze,  and  all  the  elements  commingled  began  to  move 
around  the  house  like  a  whirlwind.  The  sound  kept 
increasing  in  volume,  the  union  of  its  parts  grew  closer 
and  closer,  and  the  revolutions  about  the  house  became 
ever  faster,  until  the  people  thought  that  the  fairy  blast 
was  whirling  about  the  house.  It  was  now  here,  now 


IRISH    LITERATURE.  155 

there.  It  would  spring  away  and  leap  back  again.  It 
would  lie  down  close  to  the  ground  and  sweep  around 
beneath  the  floor.  Then,  with  a  bound,  it  was  on  high 
playing  amongst  the  rafters,  in  such  wise  that  the  people 
thought  they  heard  the  beating  of  birds'  wings  through 
the  music.  Now  the  people  believed  they  heard  the 
sobbing  of  one  in  tears,  and  anon  bursts  of  laughter. 
Again  they  thought  they  heard  plainly,  speaking  through 
the  music,  the  voice  of  a  child.  Then  came  another 
childlike  voice  to  answer  it,  and  both  made  answer  to  the 
melody.  Then  there  spoke  a  third  voice,  as  it  were  the 
voice  of  a  young  woman,  but  none  of  those  who  were 
there  ever  heard  human  voice  so  sweet,  so  beautiful,  so 
pleasing.  Soon  another  woman-voice  came  to  answer  it, 
and  if  the  first  was  sweet,  the  second  was  sweeter  far,  and 
they  kept  speaking  to  each  other  and  to  the  music  in  tune- 
ful measure.  Then,  as  though  some  door  were  flung  open, 
there  came  a  swelling,  a  rising,  and  a  strength  into  all  the 
music.  The  movement  grew  faster,  its  rush  increased, 
and  a  flood  of  joy  poured  into  the  notes.  They  rose  and 
fell.  They  were  below  on  the  ground  and  above  in  the 
rafters,  in  this  corner  and  in  that,  till  fear  began  to  creep 
over  the  people  as  they  cast  hasty  glances  over  their 
shoulders  to  see  if  anyone  had  spoken. 

'  Then  the  music  increased  yet  more  in  strength,  as 
though  another  door  wider  than  the  first  had  been  flung 


156  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

open.  Still  greater  grew  the  swelling  and  the  verve  of 
the  music,  as  it  twisted  and  writhed  about  the  floor  and 
over  the  walls  and  away  up  to  the  highest  ridge  of  the 
ceiling,  now  lowing,  now  crying  out,  now  weeping 
aloud,  now  wailing  with  grief,  in  such  wise  that  it  would 
cause  even  a  stone  to  sob  ;  now  exploding  in  bursts  of 
mirthful  laughter,  now  bursting  into  cries  of  pride  and 
power,  so  that  one  would  think  it  could  raise  the  dead 
from  the  clay.  There  were  voices  of  women  and  chil- 
dren, talking  and  answering  clearly,  through  the  cries 
that  were  loudest,  through  the  grief  that  was  saddest, 
through  the  laughter  that  was  merriest.  And  ever  and 
anon  through  all  the  maze,  there  would  come  a  long- 
drawn,  strange,  cruel  cry,  that  sent  the  shudder  of  fear 
through  all  in  the  house.  And  by-and-by  came  the 
muttering  of  thunder,  rising  and  falling  and  rumbling, 
swaying  and  trembling.  It  went  through  the  beams  of 
the  house,  through  the  wood  of  the  chairs,  and  through 
the  bones  of  the  people.  It  grew  and  grew  in  strength 
till  it  gathered  to  itself  all  the  other  sounds  and  swept 
them  with  it  round  the  house  like  straws  in  a  whirlpool. 
Ever  louder  and  heavier  grew  the  thunder,  spinning 
round  with  increasing  force,  swaying  and  vibrating  ever 
more  through  the  timbers  and  through  the  people's 
limbs,  until  every  heart  was  throbbing  fast  and  every 
head  was  dizzy. 


IRISH  LITERATURE.  157 

'  Then  the  child- voice  passed  away  through  the 
chimney,  and  then  the  woman- voice  followed,  and  so 
with  each  other  sound  in  the  music,  till  naught  was  left 
of  all  but  the  thunder  still  rocking  and  trembling.  Then 
the  thunder  grew  less  loud.  Its  swaying  and  trembling 
grew  ever  weaker,  and  its  rush  ever  feebler.  Its  strength 
faded  away  till  there  was  left  of  it  but  a  murmur.  The 
murmur  died  down  till  there  was  left  of  it  but  a 
breathing.  And  then  it  ceased. 

"  Then  the  cock  crew,  and  Bab  of  the  Liss  uttering  a 
piercing  cry  fell  down  in  a  faint. 

"  No  one  stirred.  You  would  think  that  they  sat 
enchanted.  But  at  last  the  Big  Tinker  jumped  up. 

"  '  Arrah,  praises  be  to  God ! '  said  he, '  what's  on  ye  ? 
Come,  women,  two  of  you  take  hold  of  the  girl,  and  carry 
her  out  in  the  air/  ' 

In  drama,  for  all  our  efforts  these  ten  or  fifteen  years, 
we  are  still  waiting  for  a  fine  work,  stronger  and  more 
enduring  than  such  good  little  plays  as  Douglas  Hyde's 
An  Naomh  ar  larraidh,  and  An  Tinceir  agus  an  tSidheog. 
An  organisation  like  the  Gaelic  League  is  scarcely  calcul- 
ated to  produce  literature.  I  believe  that  it  would  be 
better  for  Ireland  and  for  the  Irish  language  if,  instead  of 
the  Gaelic  League  as  it  is,  we  had  a  different  thing,  a  folk 
movement  in  the  Gaedhealtacht,  a  movement  coming 


158  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

from  the  West  eastward,  not  an  organisation  with  the 
official  institutions  of  a  political  propagandist  society,  with 
its  capital  the  capital  of  the  Pale.  It  would,  no  doubt, 
be  better  still  to  have  both  things,  the  folk  movement 
and  the  League,  but  there  is  little  chance  of  that.  I  do 
not  think  that  my  criticism  or  the  criticism  of  others  will 
now  make  the  Gaelic  League  reform  itself,  and  set  about 
work  in  a  different  way,  yet  my  criticism  is  not  factious, 
as  it  would  be  if  I  thought  that  nothing  might  possibly 
come  of  it.  The  workers  in  the  Gaelic  League  do  the 
work  to  their  hand  ;  but  they  do  little  to  foster  the  growth 
of  a  new  literature  in  Irish.  Most  of  us  agree  that  if 
modern  Irish  had  a  fine  literature — fine  poetry,  fine 
drama — very  many  who  are  not  now  seriously  affected 
by  the  propagandist  appeals  to  them  to  learn  Irish  would 
do  so,  not  because  it  has  patriotic  claims  or  grammatical 
or  philological  claims,  but  in  order  to  read  and  know 
Irish  literature,  as  they  learn  Italian  to  read  Dante  and 
Carducci,  or  German  to  read  Goethe  and  Heine — as 
some  have  learned  the  languages  of  Mistral  and  Ibsen  to 
read  and  understand  those  writers  at  their  true  best.  Mr. 
George  Moore  has  said  that  if  he  had  learned  Irish  the 
language  would  probably  now  be  saved,  as  he  might  have 
written  such  masterpieces  in  Irish  as  readers  in  this  and 
other  countries  could  not  neglect  to  study  in  their  original 
versions.  Even  with  knowledge  of  Mr.  Moore's  work, 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  159 

and  with  the  example  of  Mistral  before  me,  I  am  not  cer- 
tain that  alone  he  could  have  done  all   that,  but  his  idea 
is  a  right  idea.     If  a  language  have  a  good  literature,  it  is 
certain  to  be  recognised  and  to  have  students.     Now  the 
Gaelic  League  does  little  to  foster  the  production  of  such 
a  literature  ;   it  tries  to  do  much,  but  fails.     In  the  cir- 
cumstances it  could  not  but  fail.     Since  I  have  been 
interested  in  Irish  I  have  come  to  see  the  possibility  of 
truth  in  Gray's  line  about  a  "  mute  inglorious  Milton." 
I  had  learned  to  believe  that  as  all  men  now  have  as 
much  chance  of  acquiring  the  culture  from  which  literature 
comes  as  Burns  had,  and  as  some  of  the  ancient  writers 
had,  genius  would  out.    There  are  no  rules  for  genius, 
but  still  there  is  force  in  that  thought  of  Gray's,  a  force 
that  weakens  the  argument  in  which  I  believed.    Burns 
had    behind    him    all    the    tradition  of  Lowland  Scots 
literature,  freshened  by  acquaintance  with  Shakespeare 
and  the  great  writers  of  English,  which  is  really  the  same 
language.     So  with  the  ancients  in  their  different  age — 
I  will  not  now  labour  the  points  of  difference.     But  the 
people  of  the  Gaedhealtacht  have  no  models  except  the 
out- worn  verse-forms  of  the  later  Irish  poets,  and  such 
English  literature  as  comes  their  way.     In  Ireland  at  pre- 
sent this  model  should  be  the  drama,  and  the  Gaelic 
League  could,  I  believe,  by  giving  dramatic  models  to 
young  Irish  writers,  do  more  even  towards  making  Irish 


l6o  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

attractive  to  English  speakers  and  foreigners,  than  by 
giving  many  prizes  at  the  Oireachtas  for  all  sorts  of  essays 
and  stories  and  plays.  This  would  be  doing  the  work 
indirectly,  no  doubt,  but  would  be  the  better  way  in  the 
long  run.  As  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats  has  shown,  drama  as  the 
right  form  to  foster.  Writing  in  Samhain  in  1904,  Mr. 
Yeats  said  :  "  There  are  two  kinds  of  poetry,  and  they 
are  co-mingled  in  all  the  greatest  works.  When  the  tide 
of  life  sinks  low  there  are  pictures,  as  in  the  Ode  on 
a  Grecian  Urn,  and  in  Virgil  at  the  plucking  of  the 
Golden  Bough.  The  pictures  make  us  sorrowful.  We 
share  the  poet's  separation  from  what  he  describes.  It 
is  life  in  the  mirror,  and  our  desire  for  it  is  as  the 
desire  of  the  lost  souls  for  God.  But  when  Lucifer  stands 
among  his  friends,  when  Villon  sings  his  dead  ladies  to  so 
gallant  a  rhythm,  when  Timon  makes  his  epitaph,  we  feel 
no  sorrow,  for  life  herself  has  made  one  of  her  eternal 
gestures,  has  called  up  into  our  hearts  her  energy  that  is 
eternal  delight.  In  Ireland,  where  the  tide  of  life  is 
rising,  we  turn,  not  to  picture-making  but  to  the 
imagination  of  personality — to  drama,  gesture." 

The  new  Gaelic  literature  might  have  its  centre  in  the 
drama.  The  drama  may  be  a  graft  on  the  Gaelic  tree,  but 
that  tree  is  all  but  barren  now,  and  we  want  new  fruit. 
In  order  to  found  and  to  foster  a  dramatic  literature 
in  Gaelic  it  is  necessary  to  teach  young  writers  what  the 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  l6l 

drama  is.  One  cannot,  with  all  the  good  will  and  all  the 
good  money  in  the  world,  produce  literature  to  order, 
but  one  can  lay  down  canons  of  criticism,  one  can  strive 
to  keep  the  way  clear  for  the  coming  of  a  good  thing  by 
correcting  false  impressions,  and — what  is  more  to  the 
point  in  this  matter — one  can  set  up  good  models  and 
display  them,  when  the  models  are  at  hand  and  the 
pedestals  empty. 

Canons  of  criticism  are  not  brain-spun  and  merely 
theoretic ;  they  are,  or  should  be,  drawn  from  master- 
pieces. There  are  certain  qualities  in  all  true  art,  in  all 
fine  poetry,  in  all  good  drama.  Writers  of  plays  in 
Irish  want  to  produce  dramas  of  a  certain  kind — very 
distinctively  Irish,  very  characteristic  in  the  right  sense, 
but  still  of  the  same  kind  as  certain  plays  in  other 
languages — to  take  the  example  nearest  home,  as  certain 
plays  about  Ireland  written  in  English.  They  want  to 
produce  such  dramas,  but  they  have  not  studied  the 
models  which  have  been  followed  by  the  writers  of  the 
plays  in  English.  They  have  done  little  or  nothing 
towards  mastering  their  craft,  and  they  have  failed  in 
their  endeavour. 

The  pedestals  on  which  the  models  may  be  set  are 
empty.  Judging  from  all  but  one  of  the  plays  sent  in  for 
the  Oireachtas  some  years  ago,  when  I  was  adjudicator, 
the  authors  have  no  conception  of  what  a  play  is.  It 


1 62  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

is  unfortunate  that  the  one  exception,  which  was  the 
work  of  a  man  who  does  understand  the  craft,  and  was 
in  every  way  admirable,  was  of  a  cosmopolitan  description, 
not  at  all  so  Gaelic  in  character  as  several  plays  written  in 
English.  The  others  were  for  the  most  part  stories  or 
essays  written  in  the  form  of  dialogues  or  catechisms. 
They  had  no  dramatic  sequence  or  balance.  The  situa- 
tions did  not  flow  from  the  characters,  as  they  do  inevit- 
ably in  all  good  drama.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  stage- 
craft. The  dramatist  must  learn  his  craft  as  a  dramatist 
over  and  above  his  craft  as  a  writer,  and  before  he  begins 
he  must  have  in  him  the  makings  of  a  dramatist  and  a 
conception  of  dramatic  art.  I  believe  that  the  people  to 
whom  we  must  look  to  produce  a  new  Irish  literature 
are  young  people  of  the  Gaedhealtacht,  not  people  who 
have  lost  their  Gaelic  edge  in  the  Pale.  I  believe  that  there 
are  enough  young  Gaelic  writers  of  dramatic  talent  to 
make  the  beginnings  of  a  distinguished  dramatic  litera- 
ture in  Irish.  The  difficulty  is  to  make  them  master 
the  craft. 

If  a  small  company  of  Irish-speaking  actors  were  sent 
by  the  Gaelic  League  to  take  four  or  five  very  well  written, 
well  constructed  plays  (one-act  plays  to  begin  with)  from 
village  to  village  ki  the  most  Irish-speaking  districts,  I  am 
sure  that  within  a  year  we  should  have  the  beginning 
of  a  real  Gaelic  dramatic  literature.  Visits  of  a  Gaelic 


IRISH  LITERATURE.  163 

company  would  have  immediate  results.  For  plays  to 
send  on  tour  one  would  use  the  best  of  the  plays  already 
written  and  translations  of  the  most  Irish  pieces  of  the 
Abbey  Theatre — a  tragedy,  say,  a  merry  comedy  and  a 
serious  comedy.  Farce  is  too  easy  and  sets  our  young 
writers  on  a  false  track.  I  do  not  think  that  a  group  of 
players  from  Dublin  or  elsewhere,  going  down  to  some 
villages  in  holiday  time,  would  achieve  the  object 
proposed.  The  actors  should  be  well  trained  and 
should  form  a  professional  company,  playing  again 
and  again  in  each  village.  The  method  of  Moliere  is 
the  true  method,  and  brings  drama  home  at  last  to 
the  house  of  Moliere.  A  folk  movement  in  the 
Gaedhealtacht  would  certainly  have  given  us  a  distinc- 
tive literature  :  now  this  touring  company  would  stir 
the  waters. 

To  this  it  may  be  objected  that  in  our  age  literature 
is  metropolitan — that  it  will  have  its  centre  not  only  in 
the  drama  but  in  the  city  playhouse.  But  if  we  are  seeking 
the  expression  in  Gaelic  literature  of  the  Gaelic  ways  of 
thought  and  life  we  shall  have  to  draw  it  from  the  Gaedh- 
ealtacht. It  will,  as  I  have  said,  come  home  to  the 
city  playhouse  after.  The  necessity  for  drawing  speedily 
what  we  can  of  that  expression  now  is  clear  to  those  of 
us  who  know  at  first  hand  how  the  old  oral  tradition  is 
dying,  who  have  known  poets  and  shanachies  full  of 


164  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND. 

Gaelic  lore  to  die  with  all  their  treasures  in  their  hearts, 
leaving  no  records  and  no  succession.  Some  years  ago 
in  West  Cork  I  spent  a  day  with  such  a  one,  an  old  man 
who  knew  more  poems,  more  hero-tales,  more  biographical 
tales  of  the  Munster  Bards  than  he  ever  had  a  chance  of 
saying  or  telling.  When  I  brought  him  a  copy  of  the 
works  of  Eoghan  Ruadh  O  Suilleabhain,  he  was  able  to 
explain  passage  after  passage,  reference  after  reference, 
in  terms  of  this  tradition  of  his.  He  was  able  to  detect 
the  passages  and  poems  wrongly  attributed  to  the  poet. 
'  That's  not  by  Eoghan  Ruadh.  That  was  written  by 
Mary  O'Shea,  from  Carriganimy  beyond.  I  learned  it  for 
a  wedding  forty  years  ago.  This  is  it,  isn't  it  ?  "  He  sang 
the  poem,  many  verses  of  it,  to  a  monotonous  tune, 
marking  the  emphatic  points  by  slapping  my  knee.  My 
knowledge  of  Irish  at  the  time  and  my  patience  of  the 
music  were  soon  exhausted,  and  I  fear  I  discouraged  the 
splendid  old  man,  whom  I  never  saw  again.  His  children, 
though  interested  in  the  revival  of  the  Irish  language, 
are  not  heirs  to  his  tradition.  With  him  has  died  a 
whole  store  of  literature  and  idiom. 

As  to  the  value  of  such  a  store  I  have  no  doubt.  The 
Irish  writer  who  is  probably  greatest  of  our  time,  that 
strong,  self-sufficing,  humorous,  wise,  old  priest,  whose 
prose  I  have  quoted,  has  told  me  that  in  his  version  of  the 
New  Testament  he  was  aided  by  his  memory  of  sermons 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  165 

and  impromptu  translations  made  by  Irish-speaking 
priests  of  half  a  century  ago.  Irish  recently  tended  to 
meet  English  half  way.  The  order  of  phrases  tended  to 
change.  Writers  tended  to  express  things  in  the  English 
order  rather  than  in  the  Irish — worse  still,  tended  to  trans- 
late the  English  or  French  words  for  a  thought  rather  than 
to  express  the  thought  in  the  different  Gaelic  way.  Their 
prose  resembled  a  certain  kind  of  schoolboy  Latin,  a  close 
translation,  phrase  by  phrase  of  an  English  passage, 
possible  phrase  by  phrase  in  another  sense,  but  not  a  Latin 
rendering  of  the  thought,  not  Latin  prose.  These 
tendencies  were  bad.  By  Canon  O'Leary  and  others 
they  have  been  checked.  Writers  have  been  sent  back  to 
the  well  of  tradition  and  of  the  living  speech.  Drama 
must  go  to  that  well  too.  And  it  will  go.  For  all  that 
I  have  written  of  the  wreck  and  ruin  going  on  so  rapidly, 
I  am  confident  of  the  future.  Many  of  us  are  good 
lives  for  the  language,  though  some  of  us  still  write  in 
English.  A  number  of  us  are  better,  writers  already 
in  the  old  tradition,  though  expressing  something  of 
the  life  of  our  time.  If  I  were  asked  to  cite  a  perfect 
example  of  such  expression,  the  natural,  almost  casual, 
utterance  in  sincere,  inevitable  words  of  some  simple 
thought  or  emotion,  I  should  think  first  of  one  of  the 
Old  Irish  poems,  like  that  little  poem  about  the  black- 
bird (Domfarcai),  and  then  of  a  little  poem  written  by 


1 66  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

a  friend  of  mine,  in  an  autograph  album  of  all  the  places 
in  the  world. 

Autograph  albums  I  do  not  like.  I  have  been  asked 
a  few  times  in  my  life  to  write  in  them,  and  have  always 
done  so  with  reluctance.  The  verses  found  in  them  are 
rarely  poetry.  Copies  of  good  poems  you  will  sometimes 
meet,  but  they  are  then  copies  in  a  double  sense.  They 
suffer  incongruity.  All  things  are  against  them — the 
handwriting  of  the  copyist,  sometimes  even  of  the  author — 
the  little  pansies  and  forget-me-nots  hand-painted  round 
the  pages.  They  suffer  nicety  and  prettiness.  But  in 
one  autograph  album  that  I  know  there  is  one  true  poem, 
right  in  its  context,  right  in  what  I  hold  to  be  the  essential 
qualities  of  poetry.  This  album  has  been  on  the  rounds 
for  some  years,  and  has  accumulated  poems  by  some  of 
the  modern  masters,  drawings  by  some  of  the  best  artists— 
an  unusually  choice  and  well-filled  album.  One  feels  in 
good  company  when  writing  in  it.  At  the  request  of  the 
owner  I  sent  it  some  time  ago  to  the  Irish  writer,  Padraig 
MacSuibhne,  for  a  contribution.  He  is  not  known  to  be 
a  poet,  yet  it  is  he  who  wrote  the  one  true  poem  in  the 
book.  Before  I  sent  it,  I  looked  through  it  and  admired 
the  gracious  little  poems,  with  the  good  Irish  fragrance 
in  most  of  them.  When  I  got  it  back  I  looked  through 
it  again — page  after  page  of  such  good  verse,  in  English  ; 
then  on  the  new  page,  this  Irish  protest : 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  167 

A 


1f  t>o 

cjuiinn  50 

ctAon  tiA  ngAll  AJV  pvo. 


(Little  book  go  forth  into  the  world,  and  unto  all  that 
meet  with  thee,  duly  relate  that  after  the  wiles  of  all  the 
Gall,  still  live  the  Gael.) 

It  is  the  accent  of  the  best  of  Dante's  tornate  :  it  is  the 
accent  of  true  poetry,  simple,  sincere,  due. 

This  little  poem  serves  here  as  an  example  of  what, 
to  use  Arnold's  phrase,  may  be  called  the  note  of  the  new 
literature  —  a  note  of  pride,  of  self-reliance,  almost  of 
arrogance.  The  Gaelic  revival  has  given  to  some  of 
us  a  new  arrogance.  I  am  a  Gael  and  I  know  no  cause 
but  of  pride  in  that,  g^e-oe^l  me  ^uf  ni  ti-eol  -com 
gufv  n^i|v  t)om  e.  My  race  has  survived  the  wiles  of 
the  foreigner  here.  It  has  refused  to  yield  even  to  defeat, 
and  emerges  strong  to-day,  full  of  hope  and  of  love,  with 
new  strength  in  its  arms  to  work  its  new  destiny,  with  a 
new  song  on  its  lips  and  the  word  of  the  new  language, 
which  is  the  ancient  language,  still  calling  from  age  to 
age.  The  adorable  delicacy,  the  shrinking  sensibility,  the 
paralysing  diffidence  which  has  its  root  in  charity,  the 
qualities  which  make  for  temporary  defeat  and  yet,  being 
of  their  nature  joined  with  the  unwavering  conviction 
of  truth  and  right,  for  ultimate  victory,  —  these  live  on. 


1 68  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

Now  with  them,  in  the  same  breasts  with  them,  lives  this 
too  :  its  day  is  come.  This  arrogance  is  a  sign  of  energy, 
of  vitality,  and  so  here  is  good.  The  Gaelic  movement  is  a 
revival.  Though,  through  changes  of  methods  and  modes 
of  advance,  the  exhaustion  of  old  methods  and  the  need  for 
new  movements,  it  may  seem  to-day  that  the  central 
movement  has  lost  force,  it  still  goes  forward.  Of  a  tide 
of  thought,  drawn  by  the  inspiration  of  an  ancient  cause, 
there  is  no  ebb.  This  will  have  a  voice,  a  literature,  to- 
morrow, the  voice  of  a  people  new  to  such  a  way  of 
speech,  the  literature  of  a  fresh  people.  To  be  a  poet 
one  must  look  with  fresh  eyes  on  life  ;  to  produce  poets 
a  nation  must  be  fresh.  Ireland  has  already  produced 
a  great  literature  of  old  :  the  fragments  that  remain 
prove  that.  But,  as  we  are  now,  we  are  a  fresh  people, 
fresh  to  literature.  We  have  begun  to  produce  a  literature 
in  English,  a  foreign  tongue.  This  will  not  injure  or 
delay  the  progress  of  Gaelic  literature,  which  must  be  the 
work  of  other  writers.  Most  of  the  Anglo-Irish  poets — 
and  it  is  almost  all  poetry  still — have  spent  in  attaining 
their  knowledge  and  mastery  of  their  craft  all  the  resources 
of  learning  and  acquirement  in  them.  In  the  matter 
of  technique — and  this  is  all  but  supremely  necessary 
in  modern  poetry — one  language  only  will  one  poet 
master.  Whether  our  people  go  forward  in  Anglo-Irish 
literature  or  not,  some  of  our  poets  and  writers  of  the 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  169 

next  generation  will  certainly  continue  the  production 
of  a  new  literature  in  Irish.  As  I  have  said,  we  are 
fresh  in  other  senses  too — fresh  from  the  natural  home 
of  man,  the  fields  and  the  country.  We  have  not  all 
grown  up  in  streets  amid  the  artificialities  of  civilization, 
with  traditional  memories  of  brick  and  plaster.  The 
influences  of  nature  will  be  felt  by  us  as  by  the  true  poets 
of  all  tongues.  Our  nature  poetry  will  owe  nothing  to  the 
botanical  observations  of  city  dwellers  ;  it  will  be  no  sham 
pastoral  imitation  ;  it  will  be  natural  and  spontaneous, 
and  our  own.  But  above  all  we  are  fresh  in  language, 
which  the  most  city-hating  English  lover  of  nature  cannot 
be.  We  are  the  children  of  a  race  that,  through  need 
or  choice,  turned  from  Irish  to  English.  We  have  now 
so  well  mastered  this  language  of  our  adoption  that  we  use 
it  with  a  freshness  and  power  that  the  English  of  these 
days  rarely  have.  But  now  also  we  have  begun  to  turn 
back  to  the  old  language,  not  old  to  us.  The  future  poets 
of  the  country  will  probably  be  the  sons  and  daughters 
of  a  generation  that  learned  Irish  as  a  strange  tongue  ; 
the  words  and  phrases  of  Irish  will  have  a  new  wonder 
for  them  ;  the  figures  of  speech  will  have  all  their  first 
poetry.  Carlyle  says  of  Imagination  :  "  Metaphors  are 
her  stuff ;  examine  language — what,  if  you  except  some 
primitive  elements,  what  is  it  but  metaphors,  recognised 
as  such  or  no  longer  recognised,  still  fluid  and  florid, 


I  JO  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND. 

or  now  solid-grown  and  colourless  ?  "  The  metaphors 
of  Irish  will  not  be  colourless  to  the  fresh  eyes  of  the  next 
generation,  though  the  language  be  their  native  idiom. 
Perhaps  the  temporary  abandonment  of  Irish  has  not  been 
an  unmitigated  disaster,  now  that  its  revival  is  assured. 
A  language  that  transmits  its  literature  mainly  by  oral 
tradition  cannot,  if  spoken  only  by  thousands,  bequeath 
as  much  to  posterity  as  if  spoken  by  millions.  The  loss 
of  idiom  and  of  literature  is  a  disaster.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  abandonment  has  broken  a  tradition  of  pedantry 
and  barren  conventions  ;  and  sincerity  gains  thereby. 
The  aiding  is  now  at  last  dead  ;  the  simple  beautiful 
folk-songs  in  which  recent  Irish  literature  is  richer  per- 
haps than  any  other,  are  more  likely  to  serve  as  models 
than  the  vain  word- weaving  of  the  bards.  The  writers 
of  the  dan  dtreach  became  at  last,  to  use  a  mis-translated 
phrase,  mere  "  schoolmen  of  condensed  speech,"  but 
their  verse  at  worst  had  the  high  virtue  of  restraint.  Their 
successors  became  fluent,  eloquent  craftsmen  of  skilful 
word-music.  The  poets  of  the  next  age  will  learn  from 
the  faults  of  both  schools  ;  they  will  make  restraint  a 
canon  of  their  art,  not  a  pedantry  ;  they  will  know  that 
the  too  facile  use  of  the  adjective  is  a  vice,  and  verse-music 
a  snare.  Let  us  postulate  continuity,  but  continuity  in 
the  true  way. 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    MODE. 

OF  the  Irish  Mode  which  has  been  the  subject  of  pre- 
ceding studies,  example  is  the  best  definition.  I  am 
putting  together  here  a  number  of  poems  that  are  unmis- 
takably of  this  mood.  My  selection  is,  of  course,  nothing 
in  the  nature  of  an  anthology  ;  the  poems  are  printed 
here  to  serve  as  examples  and  indications,  ready  at  hand, 
of  my  meaning  I  print  no  poem  that  has  not  good,  and 
indeed  evident,  warranty.  One  can  easily  say  of  a  poem 
like  Mangan's  My  Dark  Rosaleen  that  it  is  essentially 
Irish,  that  it  has  some  indefinable  quality  not  found 
elsewhere.  Frankly  I  am  afraid  to  rely  on  those  inde- 
finable qualities.  If  I  included  My  Dark  Rosaleen,  it 
would  be  because  it  is  in  part  a  translation  of  an  Irish 
poem  and  is  full  of  images  and  allusions  found  in  Irish 
poetry.  I  prefer  to  take  only  poems  which  show  one  or 
another  of  those  three  influences  dealt  with  in  one  of  my 
studies  :  the  influence  of  Irish  versification,  the  influence 
of  the  Irish  way  of  speech,  the  influence  of  Irish  music. 
This  narrows  my  choice  of  course,  and  endangers  my 
criticism.  In  spite  of  all  that  I  say  here,  it  may  seem  as 


172  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

if  I  were  denying  to  some  poems,  omitted  from  this 
selection,  their  Irish  claim.  Some  of  them  are  indeed 
Irish  in  all  but  the  marks  I  look  for.  The  Little  Black 
Rose,  by  Aubrey  de  Vere,  is  as  good  an  example  of  these 
as  Mangan's  great  poem  : 

"  The  Little  Black  Rose  shall  be  red  at  last ; 

What  made  it  black  but  the  March  wind  dry, 
And  the  tear  of  the  widow  that  fell  on  it  fast  ?  ' 
It  shall  redden  the  hills  when  June  is  nigh  ! 

The  Silk  of  the  Kine  shall  rest  at  last ; 

What  drove  her  forth  but  the  dragon  fly  ? 
In  the  golden  vale  she  shall  feed  full  fast, 

With  her  mild  gold  horn  and  her  slow,  dark  eye. 

The  wounded  wood-dove  lies  dead  at  last ! 

The  pine  long  bleeding,  it  shall  not  die  ! 
This  song  is  secret.     Mine  ear  it  passed 

In  a  wind  o'er  the  plains  at  Athenry." 

Some  poems  which  lack  also  these  marks  are  even  more 
surely  Irish,  being  translations  of  Gaelic  poems,  but 
translations  from  syllabic  into  a  form  of  accentual  verse 
which  has  not  medial  assonances  or  other  graces  distinctly 
Gaelic.  Such  is  Dr.  Sigerson's  beautiful  Blackbird  of 
Daricarn  : 

"  Sweet  thy  song,  in  Dari  grove, 

No  sweeter  song  from  east  to  west ; 
No  music  like  thy  voice  of  love — 
And  thou  beneath  thy  nest ! 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    PvlODE.  173 

A  strain  the  softest  ever  heard, 

No  more  shall  come  its  like  to  men. 

O   Patrick  !    list  the  wondrous  bird — 
Thou'lt  chant  thy  hymn  again. 

If  thou,  as  I,  but  knew  the  tale 

It  sings  to  all  the  ancient  isle, 
Thy  tears  would  rise,  and  thou  wouldst  fail 

To  mind  thy  God  a  while. 

In  Norroway  beyond  the  wave, 

Its  forest  glades  and  streams  among, 

That  bird  was  found  by  Fionn  the  brave, 
And  still  we  hear  its  song. 

'Tis  Daricarn  yon  western  wood — 
The  Fianna  huntsmen  loved  it  best, 

And  there,  on  stately  oak  and  good 
Lost  Fionn  placed  its  nest. 

The  tuneful  tumult  of  that  bird, 
The  belling  deer  on  ferny  steep — 

This  welcome  in  the  dawn  he  heard, 
These  soothed  at  eve  his  sleep. 

Dear  to  him  the  wind-loved  heath, 
The  whirr  of  wings,  the  rustling  brake, 

Dear  the  murmuring  glens  beneath, 
And  sob  of  Droma's  lake. 

The  cry  of  hounds  at  early  morn, 
The  pattering  o'er  the  pebbly  creek, 

The  cuckoo's  call,  the  sounding  horn. 
The  sweeping  eagle's  shriek 


174  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

The  mountain,  not  the  cell,  they  sought, 
Great  Fionn  and  the  Fianna  fleet ; 

Than  tinkle  of  the  bells  they  thought 
The  blackbird's  song  more  sweet ! " 

There  is  still  another  kind  of  poem  which  I  cannot  use, 
a  poem  which  is  distinctively  of  this  Irish  Mode  when 
sung  to  its  air  or  spoken  to  the  rhythm  of  its  air,  but  cap- 
able of  being  spoken  quite  naturally  in  quite  another  way. 
To  my  ear  the  lines  of  this  song  of  Robert  Dwyer  Joyce's, 
which  I  quote  here,  have  the  slow,  sweet  rhythm  of  the 
lovely  air,  An  Droighnedn  Donn  (The  Blackthorn),  or  of 
the  Irish  poem  of  the  name  that  goes  to  it ;  but  I  have 
heard  them  riddled  off  in  another  way  which  has  shown 
me  the  difference  that  the  association  with  the  music 
makes  for  me  : 

"  By  road  and  by  river  the  wild  birds  sing, 
O'er  mountain  and  valley  the  dewy  leaves  spring, 
The  gay  flowers  are  shining,  gilt  o'er  by  the  sun, 
And  fairest  of  all  shines  the  Droighnean  Donn. 

The  rath  of  the  fairy,  the  ruin  hoar, 
With  white  silver  splendour  it  decks  them  all  o'er  ; 
And  down  in  the  valleys,  where  merry  streams  run, 
How  sweet  smells  the  bloom  of  the  Droighnean  Donn  ! 

Ah  !   well  I  remember  the  soft  spring  day, 
I  sat  by  my  love  'neath  its  sweet-scented  spray  ; 
The  day  that  she  told  me  her  heart  I  had  won, 
Beneath  the  white  blossoms  of  the  Droighnean  Donn. 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    MODE.  175 

The  streams  they  were  singing  their  gladsome  song, 
The  soft  winds  were  blowing  the  wild  woods  among, 
The  mountains  shone  bright  in  the  red  setting  sun, 
And  my  love  in  my  arms  'neath  the  Droighnean  Donn 

'Tis  my  prayer  in  the  morning,  my  dream  at  night, 
To  sit  thus  again  by  my  heart's  dear  delight, 
With  her  blue  eyes  of  gladness,  her  hair  like  the  sun, 
And   her  sweet   loving  kisses,  'neath  the  Droighnean 
Donn" 


On  the  other  hand  I  use  Mangan's  Vision  of  Connacht 
in  the  Thirteenth  Century  as  showing  the  influence  on 
the  poet's  ear  of  the  rich  tolling,  in  the  verse  which  he 
studied,  of  that  Gaelic  assonance  of  wider  range  than  any 
in  other  languages,  broad  vowels  assonating  with  other 
broad  and  slender  with  slender,  consonants  alliterating 
with  others  of  their  class.  Read  the  poem  slowly,  lin- 
gering on  the  stressed  syllables  and  you  will  hear  the 
full,  rich  music. 

My  examples  are  largely  drawn  from  the  earlier  writers. 
This  is,  of  course,  natural  ;  we  trace  the  river  to  its  springs. 
I  am  debarred,  moreover,  from  using  here  the  copy- 
right work  of  contemporary  authors.  A  few  of  them  are 
finer  poets  in  this  mode  and  out  of  it  than  all  but  one  or 
two  of  their  predecessors,  possibly  greater  poets  than  any 
before  them  here.  Douglas  Hyde  certainly  surpasses 
all  his  predecessors  as  a  translator.  His  influence  is 


176  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

probably  the  most  potent  felt  by  the  younger  poets  of 
the  Mode  ;  the  Irish  lyrics  of  Padraic  Colum  read  like 
other  Love-Songs  of  Connacht  omitted  from  Hyde's  book 
by  some  extraordinary  mishap, — they  are  so  good.  The 
work  of  George  Sigerson,  of  which  I  have  given  above  an 
example,  though  not  a  typical  one,  is  unique  of  its  kind. 
It  is  of  the  Irish  Mode  mainly  by  virtue  of  its  versifica- 
tion, which,  in  his  translations,  is  always  modelled  on  his 
originals.  The  work  of  W.  B.  Yeats  may  stand  with  the 
greatest  Anglo-Irish  poetry.  It  may  be  surpassed  by  the 
work  of  one  of  his  younger  contemporaries.  His  work 
and  theirs  would  supply  me  with  examples,  indeed  the 
best  examples,  of  poetry  in  this  mode  influenced  by  our 
way  of  speech  and  by  our  music.  Professor  J.  W.  Mackail, 
being  asked  to  make  an  anthology  of  Latin  Lyric  Poetry 
limited  to  a  hundred  pieces,  said  that  it  might  be  plausibly 
argued  that  room  could  be  found  in  such  a  selection  for 
none  but  the  work  of  Horace  and  Catullus.  If  I  had 
to  make  an  anthology  of  poems  of  the  Irish  Mode  limited 
as  is  this  selection,  I  could  find  room  only  for  a  small 
number  of  pieces  by  the  earlier  authors.  And  that 
perhaps  is  the  best  praise  of  those  authors,  paradoxical 
as  it  may  seem.  It  is  their  seed  that  has  flourished 
in  the  land. 

I  deal  in  one  of  my  studies  with  some  anthologies  of 
Anglo-Irish  verse.     I  wish  to  close  this  prosing  with  a 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    MODE.  177 

reference  for  readers  to  other  poets  than  those  already 
mentioned.  The  work  of  Seumas  O' Sullivan,  Moira 
O'Neill,  Joseph  Campbell,  Patrick  J.  McCall,  and 
W.  M.  Letts  is  constantly  of  this  mode.  Some  poems 
of  JE,  Dora  Sigerson,  J.  H.  Cousins,  Alice  Furlong, 
Hon.  Emily  Lawless,  Thomas  Boyd,  T.  W.  Rolleston, 
and,  I  think,  of  Thomas  MacDonagh,  are  of  it.  The 
work  of  some  young  Irish  Poets,  of  Joseph  Plunkett 
and  Peter  McBrien,  of  Susan  Mitchell  and  James 
Stephens,  may  well  stand  to  posterity  as  more  Irish, 
if  one  may  say  so,  than  any  of  this, — as  being  most 
representative  of  the  Irish  gifts  of  fervour  and  vision 
which  yet  may  save  the  world,  now  being  devastated. 
Their  work  may  so  stand  in  the  future  ;  with  such 
rare  exceptions  as  Your  Fear,  which  I  print,  it  does  not 
show  the  marks  I  look  for,  and,  as  I  have  already  said,  I 
fear  suggesting  more  than  I  can  prove. 


178  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 


TRANSLATIONS   FROM   THE    IRISH. 


CEANN   DUBH   DILIS. 

Put  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling, 

Your  darling  black  head  my  heart  above  ; 
Oh,  mouth  of  honey,  with  the  thyme  for  fragrance, 

Who,  with  heart  in  breast,  could  deny  you  love  ? 
Oh,  many  and  many  a  young  girl  for  me  is  pining, 

Letting  her  locks  of  gold  to  the  cold  wind  free, 
For  me,  the  foremost  of  our  gay  young  fellows  ; 

But  I'd  leave  a  hundred,  pure  love,  for  thee  ! 
Then  put  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling, 

Your  darling  black  head  my  heart  above  ; 
Oh,  mouth  of  honey,  with  the  thyme  for  fragrance, 

Who,  with  heart  in  breast,  could  deny  you  love  ? 

SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


CASHEL    OF    MUNSTER. 

I'd  wed  you  without   herds,   without  money,  or   rich 

array, 

And  I'd  wed  you  on  a  dewy  morning  at  day-dawn  grey  ; 
My  bitter  woe  it  is,  love,  that  we  are  not  far  away 
In  Cashel  town,  though  the  bare  deal  board  were  our 

marriage  bed  this  day  ! 


POEMS    OF   THE    IRISH    MODE.  179 

Oh,  fair  maid,  remember  the  green  hill-side  ; 
Remember  how  I  hunted  about  the  valleys  wide. 
Time  now  has  worn  me  ;  my  locks  are  turned  to  grey, 
The  year  is  scarce  and  I  am  poor, — but  send  me  not, 
love,  away  ! 

Oh,  deem  not  my  blood  is  of  base  stain,  my  girl, 
Oh,  think  not  my  birth  was  as  the  birth  of  the  churl ; 
Marry  me,  and  prove  me,  and  say  soon  you  will, 
That  noble  blood  is  written  on  my    right  side    still ! 

My  purse  holds  no  red  gold,  no  coin  of  the  silver  white, 
No  herds  are  mine  to  drive  through  the  long  twilight ; 
But  the  pretty  girl  that  would  take  me,  all  bare  though  I 

be  and  lone, 
Oh,  I'd  take  her  with  me  kindly  to  the  county  Tyrone. 

Oh,  my  girl,  I  can  see  'tis  in  trouble  you  are, 

And,  oh,  my  girl,  I  see  'tis  your  people's  reproach  you 

bear. 

— I  am  a  girl  in  trouble  for  his  sake  with  whom  I  fly, 
And,  oh,  may  no  other  maiden  know  such  reproach  as  I  ! 

SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


HAVE    YOU    BEEN    AT    CARRICK  ? 

Have  you  been  at  Carrick,  and  saw  my  true-love  there  ? 
And  saw  you   her  features,   all   beautiful,   bright,   and 

fair? 

Saw  you  the  most  fragrant,  flowering,  sweet  apple-tree  ? — 
Oh !  saw  you  my  loved  one,  and  pines  she  in  grief  like 

me  ? 


180  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

I  have  been  at  Carrick,  and  saw  thy  own  true-love  there  ; 
And  saw,  too,  her  features,  all  beautiful,  bright  and  fair  ; 
And  saw  the  most  fragrant,  flowering,  sweet  apple-tree — 
I  saw  thy  loved  one — she  pines  not  in  grief,  like  thee  ! 

Five  guineas  would  price  every  tress  of  her  golden  hair — 
Then  think  what  a  treasure  her  pillow  at  night  to  share, 
These  tresses  thick-clustering  and  curling  around  her 

brow — 
Oh,  Ringlet  of  Fairness  !   I'll  drink  to  thy  beauty  now ! 

When  seeking  to  slumber,  my  bosom  is  rent  with  sighs— 
I  toss  on  my  pillow  till  morning's  blest  beams  arise  ; 
No  aid,  bright  Beloved  !  can  reach  me  save  God  above, 
For  a  blood-lake  is  formed  of  the  light  of  my  eyes  with 
love  ! 

Until  yellow  Autumn  shall  usher  the  Paschal  day, 
And  Patrick's  gay  festival  come  in  its  train  alway — 
Until  through  my  coffin  the  blossoming  boughs  shall 

grow, 
My  love  on  another  I'll  never  in  life  bestow  ! 

Lo  !    yonder  the  maiden  illustrious,  queen-like,  high, 
With  long-flowing  tresses  adown  to  her  sandal-tie — 
Swan,  fair  as  the  lily,  descended  of  high  degree, 
A  myriad  of  welcomes,  dear  maid  of  my  heart,  to  thee  ! 

EDWARD  WALSH. 


POEMS    OF   THE    IRISH    MODE.  l8l 


THE    OUTLAW    OF    LOCH    LENE. 

Oh,  many  a  day  have  I  made  good  ale  in  the  glen, 
That  came  not  of  stream  or  malt,  like  the  brewing  of 

men. 

My  bed  was  the  ground  ;  my  roof,  the  greenwood  above, 
And  the  wealth  that  I  sought  one  far  kind  glance  from 

my  love. 

Alas  !   on  that  night  when  the  horses  I  drove  from  the 

field, 

That  I  was  not  near  from  terror  my  angel  to  shield. 
She  stretched  forth  her  arms, — her  mantle  she  flung 

to  the  wind, 
And  swam  o'er  Loch  Lene,  her  outlawed  lover  to  find. 

Oh,  would  that  a  freezing  sleet- wing' d  tempest  did  sweep, 
And  I  and  my  love  were  alone,  far  off  on  the  deep  ; 
I'd  ask  not  a  ship,  or  a  bark,  or  pinnace,  to  save, — 
With  her  hand  round  my  waist,  I'd  fear  not  the  wind  or 
the  wave. 

'Tis  down  by  the  lake  where  the  wild-tree  fringes  its 

sides, 

The  maid  of  my  heart,  my  fair  one  of  Heaven  resides  ; — 
I  think  as  at  eve  she  wanders  its  mazes  along, 
The  birds  go  to  sleep  by  the  sweet  wild  twist  of  her  song. 

J.  J.  CALLANAN. 


1 82  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 


PASTHEEN    FINN 

Oh,  my  fair  Pastheen  is  my  heart's  delight ; 

Her  gay  heart  laughs  in  her  blue  eye  bright ; 

Like  the  apple  blossom  her  bosom  white, 

And  her  neck  like  the  swan's  on  a  March  morn  bright ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me  !    come  with  me  !    come 
with  me  ! 

Oro,  come  with  me  !  brown  girl,  sweet ! 

And,  oh  !   I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  brown  girl,  sweet ! 

Love  of  my  heart,  my  fair  Pastheen  ! 

Her  cheeks  are  as  red  as  the  rose's  sheen, 

But  my  lips  have  tasted  no  more,  I  ween, 

Than  the  glass  I  drank  to  the  health  of  my  queen  ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me  !    come  with  me  !    come 
with  me  ! 

Oro,  come  with  me  !   brown  girl,  sweet ! 

And,  oh  !   I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  brown  girl,  sweet ! 

Were  I  in  the  town,  where's  mirth  and  glee, 
Or  'twixt  two  barrels  of  barley  bree, 
With  my  fair  Pastheen  upon  my  knee, 
'Tis  I  would  drink  to  her  pleasantly  ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me  !  come  with  me  !  come 
with  me  ! 

Oro,  come  with  me  !    brown  girl,  sweet ! 

And,  oh  !   I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  brown  girl,  sweet ! 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    MODE.  183 

Nine  nights  I  lay  in  longing  and  pain, 
Betwixt  two  bushes,  beneath  the  rain, 
Thinking  to  see  you,  love,  once  again  ; 
But  whistle  and  call  were  all  in  vain  ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me  !    come  with  me  !    come 
with  me  ! 

Oro,  come  with  me  !   brown  girl,  sweet ! 

And,  oh  !   I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  brown  girl,  sweet ! 

I'll  leave  my  people,  both  friend  and  foe  ; 
From  all  the  girls  in  the  world  I'll  go  ; 
But  from  you,  sweetheart,  oh,  never  !   oh,  no  ! 
Till  I  lie  in  the  coffin,  stretched  cold  and  low ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me  !    come  with  me  !    come 
with  me  ! 

Oro,  come  with  me  !  brown  girl,  sweet ! 

And,  oh !    I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  brown  girl,  sweet. 

SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


THE    COOLUN. 

Oh,  had  you  seen  the  Coolun, 

Walking  down  by  the  cuckoo's  street, 
With  the  dew  of  the  meadow  shining 

On  her  milk-white  twinkling  feet. 
My  love  she  is,  and  my  cailin  6g 

And  she  dwells  in  Bal'nagar  ; 
And  she  bears  the  palm  of  beauty  bright 

From  the  fairest  that  in  Erin  are. 


184  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

In  Bal'nagar  is  the  Coolun, 

Like  the  berry  on  the  bough  her  cheek  ; 
Bright  beauty  dwells  for  ever 

On  her  fair  neck  and  ringlets  sleek  ; 
Oh,  sweeter  is  her  mouth's  soft  music 

Than  the  lark  or  thrush  at  dawn, 
Or  the  blackbird  in  the  greenwood  singing 

Farewell  to  the  setting  sun. 

Rise  up,  my  boy  !  make  ready 

My  horse,  for  I  forth  would  ride, 
To  follow  the  modest  damsel, 

Where  she  walks  on  the  green  hill-side 
For  ever  since  our  youth  were  we  plighted, 

In  faith,  troth,  and  wedlock  true — 
Oh,  she's  sweeter  to  me  nine  times  over 

Than  organ  or  cuckoo  ! 

For  ever  since  my  childhood 

I  loved  the  fair  and  darling  child  ; 
But  our  people  came  between  us, 

And  with  lucre  our  pure  love  defiled  : 
Oh,  my  woe  it  is,  and  my  bitter  pain, 

And  I  weep  it  night  and  day, 
That  the  cailin  ban  of  my  early  love 

Is  torn  from  my  heart  away. 

Sweetheart  and  faithful  treasure, 
Be  constant  still,  and  true  ; 

Nor  for  want  of  herds  and  houses 
Leave  one  who  would  ne'er  leave  you. 


POEMS    OF   THE    IRISH    MODE.  185 

I'll  pledge  you  the  blessed  Bible, 

Without  and  eke  within, 
That  the  faithful  God  will  provide  for  us, 

Without  thanks  to  kith  or  kin. 

Oh,  love,  do  you  remember 

When  we  lay  all  night  alone, 
Beneath  the  ash  in  the  winter  storm, 

When  the  oak  wood  round  did  groan  ? 
No  shelter  then  from  the  blast  had  we, 

The  bitter  blast  or  sleet, 
But  your  gown  to  wrap  about  our  heads, 

And  my  coat  round  our  feet. 

SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


PULSE    OF   MY   HEART. 

Before  the  sun  rose  at  yester-dawn, 
I  met  a  fair  maid  adown  the  lawn : 

The  berry  and  snow 

To  her  cheek  gave  its  glow, 
And  her  bosom  was  fair  as  the  sailing  swan — 
Then,  pulse  of  my  heart !   what  gloom  is  thine  ? 

Her  beautiful  voice  more  hearts  hath  won 
Than  Orpheus'  lyre  of  old  had  done  ; 

Her  ripe  eyes  of  blue 

Were  crystals  of  dew, 
On  the  grass  of  the  lawn  before  the  sun — 
And,  pulse  of  my  heart !   what  gloom  is  thine  ? 

EDWARD  WALSH. 


1 86  LITERATURE    IN    IRELAND 


ISN'T  IT  PLEASANT  FOR  THE  LITTLE  BIRDS. 

Isn't  it  pleasant  for  the  little  birds 

That  rise  up  above, 
And  be  nestling  together 

On  the  one  branch,  in  love  ? 
Not  so  with  myself 

And  the  darling  of  my  heart — 
Every  day  rises  upon  us 

Far,  far  apart. 

She  is  whiter  than  the  lily, 

Than  beauty  more  fine. 
She  is  sweeter  than  the  violin, 

More  radiant  than  the  sunshine. 
But  her  grace  and  her  nobleness 

Are  beyond  all  that  again — 
And,  O  God  Who  art  in  Heaven, 

Free  me  from  pain  ! 


PEARL  OF  THE  WHITE  BREAST. 

There's  a  colleen  fair  as  May, 

For  a  year  and  for  a  day 

I've  sought  by  every  way — Her  heart  to  gain. 

There's  no  art  of  tongue  or  eye, 

Fond  youths  with  maidens  try, 

But  I've  tried  with  ceaseless  sigh — Yet  tried  in  vain, 

If  to  France  or  far-off  Spain, 

She'd  cross  the  watery  main, 

To  see  her  face  again — The  sea  I'd  brave. 


POEMS    OF   THE    IRISH    MODE.  1 87 

And  if  'tis  Heaven's  decree, 

That  mine  she  may  not  be, 

May  the  Son  of  Mary  me — In  mercy  save  I 

Oh,  thou  blooming  milk-white  dove, 

To  whom  I've  given  true  love, 

Do  not  ever  thus  reprove — My  constancy. 

There  are  maidens  would  be  mine, 

With  wealth  in  hand  and  kine, 

If  my  heart  would  but  incline — To  turn  from  thee, 

But  a  kiss,  with  welcome  bland, 

And  a  touch  of  thy  dear  hand, 

Are  all  that  I  demand, — Wouldst  thou  not  spurn  ; 

For  if  not  mine,  dear  girl, 

Oh,  Snowy-breasted  Pearl ! 

May  I  never  from  the  Fair — With  life  return  ! 

GEORGE  PETRIE. 


THE    COUNTY     OF    MAYO. 

(BY  THOMAS  FLAVELL.) 

On  the   deck  of  Patrick  Lynch's  boat  I  sat  in  woful 

plight, 
Through  my  sighing  all  the  weary  day,  and  weeping 

all  the  night ; 
Were  it  not  that  full  of  sorrow  from  my  people  forth 

I  go> 

By  the  blessed  sun  !    'tis  royally  I'd  sing  thy  praise, 
Mayo  ! 


1 88  LITERATURE   IN    IRELAND. 

When  I  dwelt  at  home  in  plenty,  and  my  gold  did  much 

abound, 
In  the  company  of  fair  young  maids  the  Spanish  ale  went 

round — 
'Tis  a  bitter  change  from  those  gay  days  that  now  I'm 

forced  to  go, 
And  must  leave  my  bones  in  Santa  Cruz,  far  from  my 

own  Mayo. 

They  are  altered  girls  in  Irrul  now  ;    'tis  proud  they're 

grown  and  high, 
With  their  hair-bags  and  their  top-knots,  for  I  pass  their 

buckles  by — 
But  it's  little  now  I  heed  their  airs,  for  God  will  have 

it  so, 
That  I  must  depart  for  foreign  lands,  and  leave  my  sweet 

Mayo. 

'Tis  my  grief  that  Patrick  Loughlin  is  not  Earl  of  Irrul 

still, 
And  that  Brian  Duff  no  longer  rules  as  Lord  upon  the 

hill: 

And  that  Colonel  Hugh  MacGrady  should  be  lying  dead 
and  low, 

And  I  sailing,  sailing  swiftly  from  the  county  of  Mayo. 

GEORGE  Fox. 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    MODE  189 

THE    FAIR    HILLS    OF    IRELAND. 

A  plenteous  place  is   Ireland  for  hospitable  cheer, 

Uileacan   dubh   0  ! 

Where  the  wholesome  fruit  is  bursting  from  the  yellow 
barley  ear  ; 

Uileacan   dubh   0  ! 
There  is  honey   in   the   trees    where   her   misty  vales 

expand, 
And  her  forest  paths  in  summer  are  by  falling  waters 

fanned  ; 
There  is  dew  at  high  noontide  there,  and  springs  i'  the 

yellow  sand, 
On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Curled  he  is  and  ringleted,  and  plaited  to  the  knee, 

Uileacan   dubh   0  ! 
Each  captain  who  comes  sailing  across  the  Irish  sea  ; 

Uileacan   dubh   0  ! 
And   I   will  make   my  journey,  if  life  and  health  but 

stand, 
Unto    that   pleasant   country,   that   fresh   and   fragrant 

strand, 
And  leave  your  boasted  braveries,  your  wealth  and  high 

command, 
For  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Large  and  profitable  are  the  stacks  upon  the  ground  ; 

Uileacan   dubh   0  ! 
The  butter  and  the  cream  do  wondrously  abound  ; 

Uileacan   dubh   0  ! 


1 90  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

The  cresses  on  the  water  and  the  sorrels  are  at  hand, 
And  the  cuckoo's  calling  daily  his  note  of  music  bland, 
And  the  bold  thrush  sings  so  bravely  his  song  i'  the  forests 

grand, 
On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


LAMENTATION  OF  MAC  LIAG  FOR  KINCORA. 

Oh,  where,  Kincora  !   is  Brian  the  Great  ? 
And  where  is  the  beauty  that  once  was  thine  ? 
Oh,  where  are  the  princes  and  nobles  that  sate 
At  the  feast  in  thy  halls,  and  drank  the  red  wine  ? 

Where,   O   Kincora  ? 

Oh,  where,  Kincora  !    are  thy  valorous  lords  ? 
Oh,  whither,  thou  Hospitable  !    are  they  gone  ? 
Oh,  where  are  the  Dalcassians  of  the  Golden  Swords  ? 
And  where  are  the  warriors  Brian  led  on  ? 

Where,  O  Kincora  ? 

And  where  is  Murrough,  the  descendant  of  kings — 
The  defeater  of  a  hundred — the  daringly  brave — 
Who  set  but  slight  store  by  jewels  and  rings — 
Who  swam  down  the  torrent  and  laughed  at  its  wave  ? 

Where,  O  Kincora  ? 

And  where   is   Donogh,   King   Brian's   worthy  son  ? 
And    where    is    Conaing,    the    Beautiful    Chief  ? 
And    Kian,    and    Core  ?    Alas !     they    are    gone— 
They  have  left  me  this  night  alone  with  my  grief ! 

Left  me,  Kincora  ! 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    MODE.  IQI 

And  where  are  the  chiefs  with  whom  Brian  went  forth, 
The  ne'er-vanquished  son  of  Evin  the  Brave, 
The  great  King  of  Onaght,  renowned  for  his  worth, 
And  the  hosts  of  Baskinn,  from  the  western  wave  ? 

Where,  O  Kincora  ? 


Oh,  where  is  Duvlann  of  the  Swift- footed  Steeds  ? 
And  where  is  Kian,  who  was  son  of  Molloy  ? 
And  where  is  King  Lonergan,  the  fame  of  whose  deeds 
In  the  red  battle-field  no  time  can  destroy  ? 

Where,  O  Kincora  ? 


And  where  is  that  youth  of  majestic  height, 
The   faith-keeping  Prince  of  the   Scots  ? — Even  he, 
As  wide  as  his  fame  was,  as  great  as  was  his  might, 
Was  tributary,  O  Kincora,  to  thee  ! 

Thee,  O  Kincora! 


They  are  gone,  those  heroes  of  royal  birth, 
Who   plundered   no    churches,   and   broke   no   trust, 
'Tis  weary  for  me  to  be  living  on  earth 
When  they,  O  Kincora,  lie  low  in  the  dust ! 

Low,  O  Kincora ! 

Oh,  never  again  will  Princes  appear, 
To  rival  the  Dalcassians  of  the  Cleaving  Swords  ! 
I  can  never  dream  of  meeting  afar  or  anear, 
In  the  east  or  the  west,  such  heroes  and  lords  ! 

Never,   Kincora  ! 


IQ2  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

Oh,  dear  are  the  images  my  memory  calls  up 
Of  Brian  Bom  ! — how  he  never  would  miss 
To  give  me  at  the  banquet  the  first  bright  cup  ! 
Ah  !    why  did  he  heap  on  me  honour  like  this  ? 

Why,  O  Kincora  ? 

I  am  MacLiag,  and  my  home  is  on  the  Lake  ; 
Thither  often,  to  that  palace  whose  beauty  is  fled, 
Came  Brian  to  ask  me,  and  I  went  for  his  sake. 
Oh,  my  grief !   that  I  should  live,  and  Brian  be  dead  ! 

Dead,  O  Kincora  ! 

JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


A  FAREWELL  TO  PATRICK  SARSFIELD, 
EARL  OF  LUCAN. 

Farewell,  O  Patrick  Sarsfield,  may  luck  be  on  your  path  ! 

Your  camp  is  broken  up,  your  work  is  marred  for  years  ; 
But  you  go  to  kindle  into  flame  the  King  of  France's  wrath, 

Though  you  leave  sick  Eire  in  tears — 
Och,  ochone ! 

May  the  white  sun  and  moon  rain  glory  on  your  head, 
All  hero  as  you  are,  and  holy  man  of  God  ! 

To  you  the  Saxons  owe  a  many  an  hour  of  dread 
In  the  land  you  have  often  trod — 

Och,  ochone  ! 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    MODE.  193 

The  Son  of  Mary  guard  you,  and  bless  you  to  the  end  ! 

'Tis  altered  is  the  time  when  your  legions  were  astir, 
When  at  Cullen  you  were  hailed  as  conqueror  and  friend, 

And  you  crossed  Narrow-water,  near  Birr — 
Och,  ochone ! 


I'll  journey  to  the  north,  over  mount,  moor,  and  wave  ; 

'Twas  there  I  first  beheld  drawn  up,  in  file  and  line, 
The  brilliant  Irish  hosts  ;  they  were  bravest  of  the  brave, 

But,  alas,  they  scorned  to  combine — 
Och,  ochone  ! 

I  saw  the  royal  Boyne  when  his  billows  flashed  with  blood  ; 

I  fought  at  Graine  Og,  when  a  thousand  horsemen  fell ; 
On  the  dark  empurpled  plain  of  Aughrim,  too,  I  stood, 

On  the  plain  by  Tubberdonny's  well — 
Och,  ochone ! 

To  the  heroes  of  Limerick,  the  City  of  the  Fights, 
Be  my  best  blessing  borne  on  the  wings  of  the  air  ; 

We  had  card-playing  there  o'er  our  camp  fires  at  night, 
And  the  Word  of  Life,  too,  and  prayer — 
Och,  ochone ! 

But  for  you,  Londonderry,  may  plague  smite  and  slay 
Your  people  !     May  ruin  desolate  you  stone  by  stone  ! 
Through  you  there's  many  a  gallant  youth  lies  coffinless 

to-day 

With  the  winds  for  mourners  alone — 
Och,  ochone ! 


194  LITERATURE   IN    IRELAND. 

I  clomb  the  high  hill  on  a  fair  summer  noon, 
And  saw  the  Saxons  muster,  clad  in  armour  blinding 

bright : 

Oh,  rage  withheld  my  hand,  or  gunsman  and  dragoon 
Should  have  supped  with  Satan  that  night ! — 
Och,  ochone  ! 


How  many  a  noble  soldier,  how  many  a  cavalier, 
Careered  along  this  road,  seven  fleeting  weeks  ago, 

With  silver-hilted  sword,  with  matchlock  and  with  spear, 
Who  now,  mo  bhron !    lieth  low — 

Och,  ochone ! 

All  hail  to  thee,  Beinn  Eidir  !  but  ah,  on  thy  brow 
I  see  a  limping  soldier,  who  battled  and  who  bled 

Last  year  in  the  cause  of  the  Stuart,  though  now 
The  worthy  is  begging  his  bread — 

Och,  ochone  ! 

And  Diarmid  !  oh,  Diarmid  !  he  perished  in  the  strife  ; 

His  head  it  was  spiked  upon  a  halberd  high  ; 
His  colours  they  were  trampled  :  he  had  no  chance  of  life 

If  the  Lord  God  Himself  stood  by  ! — 
Och,  ochone ! 

But  most,  oh,  my  woe  !    I  lament  and  lament 

For  the  ten  valiant  heroes  who  dwelt  nigh  the  Nore, 

And  my  three  blessed  brothers  ;   they  left  me  and  went 
To  the  wars,  and  returned  no  more — 
Och,  ochone ! 


POEMS    OF   THE    IRISH    MODE.  195 

On  the  bridge  of  the  Boyne  was  our  first  overthrow  ; 

By  Slaney  the  next,  for  we  battled  without  rest ; 
The  third  was  at  Aughrim.     O  Eire  !   thy  woe 

Is  a  sword  in  my  bleeding  breast — 
Och,  ochone ! 

Oh,  the  roof  above  our  heads,  it  was  barbarously  fired, 
While  the  black  Orange  guns  blazed  and  bellowed 

around  ! 

And  as  volley  followed  volley,  Colonel  Mitchel  inquired 
Whether  Lucan  still  stood  his  ground  ? — 
Och,  ochone ! 

But  O' Kelly  still  remains,  to  defy  and  to  toil, 
He  has  memories  that  hell  won't  permit  him  to  forget, 

And  a  sword  that  will  make  the  blue  blood  flow  like  oil 
Upon  many  an  Aughrim  yet ! — 

Och,  ochone ! 

And  I  never  shall  believe  that  my  fatherland  can  fall 
With  the  Burkes,  and  the  Dukes,  and  the  son  of  Royal 

James, 

And  Talbot,  the  captain,  and  Sarsfield  above  all, 
The  beloved  of  damsels  and  dames — 
Och,  ochone ! 

JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


IQ6  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

KATHALEEN    NY-HOULAHAN. 
(By  WILLIAM  HEFFERNAN.) 

Long  they  pine  in  weary  woe,  the  nobles  of  our  land, 
Long  they  wander  to  and  fro,    proscribed,  alas  !  and 

banned  ; 

Feastless,  houseless,  altarless,  they  bear  the  exile's  brand  ; 
But   their   hope   is   in   the   coming-to  of  Kathaleen 

Ny-Houlahan  ! 

Think  her  not  a  ghastly  hag,  too  hideous  to  be  seen, 
Call  her  not  unseemly  names,  our  matchless  Kathaleen  ; 
Young  she  is,  and  fair  she  is,  and  would  be  crowned 

a  queen, 
Were  the  king's  son  at  home  here  with  Kathaleen 

Ny-Houlahan  ! 

Sweet  and  mild  would  look  her  face,  oh !  none  so  sweet 

and  mild, 

Could  she  crush  the  foes  by  whom  her  beauty  is  reviled  ; 
Woollen  plaids  would  grace  herself,  and  robes  of  silk 

her  child, 
If  the  king's  son  were  living  here  with  Kathaleen 

Ny-Houlahan ! 

Sore  disgrace  it  is  to  see  the  Arbitress  of  thrones, 
Vassal  to  a  Saxoneen  of  cold  and  sapless  bones  ! 
Bitter  anguish  wrings  our  souls — with  heavy  sighs  and 

groans 
We     wait     the     young     Deliverer     of     Kathaleen 

Ny-Houlahan  ! 


POEMS    OF   THE    IRISH    MODE.  1 97 

Let  us  pray  to  Him  who  holds  life's  issues  in  His  hands — 
Him  who  formed  the  mighty  globe,  with  all  its  thousand 

lands, 
Girdling  them  with  seas  and  mountains,  rivers  deep,  and 

strands, 
To  cast  a  look  of  pity  upon  Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan  1 

He  who  over  sands  and  waves  led  Israel  along — 

He  who  fed,  with  heavenly  bread,  that  chosen  tribe  and 

throng — 
He  who  stood  by  Moses,  when  his  foes  were  fierce  and 

strong — 

May  He  show  forth  His  might  in  saving  Kathaleen 
Ny-Houlahan  1 

JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


EAMONN    AN    CHNUIC. 

— Who  is  that  out  there  still 

With  voice  sharp  and  shrill, 

Beating  my  door  and  calling  ? 

—I  am  Ned  of  the  Hill, 

Wet,  weary  and  chill, 

The   mountains   and   glens   long   walking. 

— O  my  dear  love  and  true  ! 

What  could  I  do  for  you 

But  under  my  mantle  draw  you  ? 

For  the  bullets  like  hail 

Fall  thick  on  your  trail, 

And  together  we  both  may  be  slaughtered, 


LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND, 

— Long  lonely  I  go, 

Under  frost,  under  snow, 

Hunted  through  hill  and  through  hollow. 

No  comrade  I  know  : 

No  furrow  I  sow  : 

My  team  stands  unyoked  in  the  fallow : 

No  friend  will  give  ear 

Or  harbour  me  here, — 

'Tis  that  makes  the  weight  of  my  sorrow 

So  my  journey  must  be 

To  the  east  o'er  the  sea 

Where  no  kindred  will  find  me  or  follow  1 


DRUIMFHIONN  BONN  DILIS. 

— O  Druimfhionn  Donn  Dilis  ! 

0  Silk  of  the  Kine  ! 

Where  goest  thou  for  sleeping  ? 

What  pastures  are  thine  ? 

— In  the  woods  with  my  gilly 

Always  I  must  keep, 

And  'tis  that  now  that  leaves  me 

Forsaken  to  weep. 

Land,  homestead,  wines,  music  : 

1  am  reft  of  them  all ! 

Chief  and  bard  that  once  wooed  me 
Are  gone  from  my  call ! 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    MODE.  1 99 

And  cold  water  to  soothe  me 
I  sup  with  my  tears, 
While  the  foe  that  pursues  me 
Has  drinking  that  cheers. 

— Through  the  mist  of  the  glensides 

And  hills  I'll  return  : 

Like  a  brogue  beyond  mending 

The  Sasanach  I'll  spurn : 

If  in  battle's  contention 

I  have  sight  of  the  crown, 

I'll  befriend  thee  and  defend  thee, 

My  young  Druimfhionn  Donn  ! 


THE  YELLOW  BITTERN. 
(By  CATHAL  BUIDHE  MAC  GIOLLA  GHUNNA.) 

The  yellow  bittern  that  never  broke  out 

In  a   drinking  bout,   might  as  well  have   drunk ; 

His  bones  are  thrown  on  a  naked  stone 
Where  he  lived   alone  like  a   hermit  monk, 

0  yellow  bittern  !     I  pity  your  lot, 

Though  they  say  that  a  sot  like  myself  is  curst — 

1  was  sober  a  while,  but  I'll  drink  and  be  wise 
For  fear  I  should  die  in  the  end  of  thirst. 

It's  not  for  the  common  birds  that  I'd  mourn, 
The  black-bird,  the  corn-crake  or  the  crane, 

But  for  the  bittern  that's  shy  and  apart 
And  drinks  in  the  marsh  from  the  lone  bog-drain. 


200  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

Oh  !   if  I  had  known  you  were  near  your  death, 
While  my  breath  held  out  I'd  have  run  to  you, 

Till  a  splash  from  the  Lake  of  the  Son  of  the  Bird 
Your  soul  would  have  stirred  and  waked  anew. 

My  darling  told  me  to  drink  no  more 

Or  my  life  would  be  o'er  in  a  little  short  while  ; 
But  I  told  her  'tis  drink  gives  me  health  and  strength 

And  will  lengthen  my  road  by  many  a  mile. 
You  see  how  the  bird  of  the  long  smooth  neck 

Could  get  his  death  from  the  thirst  at  last — 
Come,  son  of  my  soul,  and  drain  your  cup, 

You'll  get  no  sup  when  your  life  is  past. 

In  a  wintering  island  by  Constantine's  halls 

A  bittern  calls  from  a  wineless  place, 
And  tells  me  that  hither  he  cannot  come 

Till  the  summer  is  here  and  the  sunny  days. 
When  he  crosses  the  stream  there  and  wings  o'er  the  sea 

Then  a  fear  comes  to  me  he  may  fail  in  his  flight — 
Well,  the  milk  and  the  ale  are  drunk  every  drop, 

And  a  dram  won't  stop  our  thirst  this  night. 


THE  SONG  OF  GLADNESS. 
(By  WILLIAM  HEFFERNAN.) 

It  was  on  a  balmy  evening,  as  June  was  departing  fast, 
That  alone,  and  meditating  in  grief  on  the  times  a-past, 

I  wandered  through  the  gloomsome  shades 
Of  bosky  Aherlow, 

A  wilderness  of  glens  and  glades, 


POEMS    OF   THE    IRISH    MODE.  2OI 

When  suddenly  a  thrilling  strain  of  song 

Broke  forth  upon  the  air  in  one  incessant  flow  ; 
Sweeter  it  seemed  to  me  (both  voice  and  word) 
Than  harmony  of  the  harp,  or  carol  of  the  bird, 
For  it  foretold  fair  Freedom's  triumph,  and  the  doom  of 
Wrong. 


The  celestial  hymns  and  anthems,  that  far  o'er  the  sound- 
ing sea 
Come  to    Erin   from    the    temples    of  bright-bosomed 

Italy  ; 
The  music  which  from  hill  and  rath 

The  playful  fairy  race 
Pour  on  the  wandering  warrior's  path, 
Bewildering  him  with  wonder  and  delight, 

Or  the  cuckoo's  full  note  from  some  green  sunless 

place, 

Some  sunken  thicket  in  a  stilly  wood, 
Had   less   than  that  rich  melody  made  mine   Irish 

blood 

Bound  in  its  veins  for  ecstasy,  or  given  my  soul  new 
might ! 


And  while  as  I  stood  I  listened,  behold,  thousand  swarm 

of  bees, 
All  arrayed  in  gay  gold  armour,  shone  red  through  the 

dusky  trees  ; 

I  felt  a  boding  in  my  soul, 
A  truthful  boding,  too, 
That  Erin's  days  of  gloom  and  dole 


202  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

Will  soon  be  but  remembered  as  a  dream, 

And  the  olden  glory  show  eclipsed  by  the  new. 
Where  will  the  Usurper  then  be  ?     Banished  far  ! 
Where  his  vile  hireling  henchmen  ?     Slaughtered  all 

in  war  ! 

For  blood  shall  rill  down  every  hill,  and  blacken  every 
stream. 

I  am  Heffernan  of  Shronehill :    my    land    mourns  in 

thraldom  long  ; 
And  I  see  but  one  sad  sight  here,  the  weak  trampled  by 

the  strong, 
Yet  if  to-morrow  underneath 

A  burial-stone  I  lay, 
Clasped  in  the  skeleton  arms  of  death. 
And  if  a  pilgrim  wind  again  should  waft 

Over  my  noteless  grave  the  song  I  heard  to-day, 
I  would  spring  up  revivified,  reborn, 
A  living  soul  again,  as  on  my  birthday  morn, 
Ay  !   even  though  coffined,  over-earthed,  tombed-in,  and 
epitaphed  ! 

JAMES  CLARENCE  MAN  CAN. 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    MODE.  203 


BALLADS    AND    STREET    SONGS. 
SHULE    AROON. 

A  BRIGADE  BALLAD. 

I  wish  I  were  on  yonder  hill, 
'Tis  there  I'd  sit  and  cry  my  fill 
Till  every  tear  would  turn  a  mill, 
7s  go  dteidh  tu,  a  mhuirntn,  sldn ! 

Siubhail,  siubhail,  siubhail,  a  ridn ! 
Siubhail  go  socair,  agus  siubhail  go  ciuin, 
Siubhail  go  dti  an  dorus  agus  eulaigh  Horn, 
Is  go  dteidh  tu,  a  mhuimin,  sldn! 

I'll  sell  my  rock,  I'll  sell  my  reel, 
I'll  sell  my  only  spinning-wheel, 
To  buy  for  my  love  a  sword  of  steel, 
Is  go  dteidh  tu,  a  mhuirntn,  sldn ! 

I'll  dye  my  petticoats,  I'll  dye  them  red, 
And  round  the  world  I'll  beg  my  bread, 
Until  my  parents  will  wish  me  dead, 
7s  go  dteidh  tu,  a  mhuirn'm,  sldn ! 


204  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

I  wish,  I  wish,  I  wish  in  vain, 
I  wish  I  had  my  heart  again, 
And  vainly  think  I'd  not  complain, 
Is  go  dteidh  tu,  a  mhuirnin,  sldn ! 

But  now  my  love  has  gone  to  France, 
To  try  his  fortune  to  advance  ; 
If  he  e'er  come  back  'tis  but  a  chance, 
Is  go  dteidh  tu,  a  mhuirnin,  sldn ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE    CROPPY    BOY 

It  was  very  early  in  the  spring, 
The  birds  did  whistle  and  sweetly  sing, 
Changing  their  notes  from  tree  to  tree, 
And  the  song  they  sang  was  Old  Ireland  free. 

It  was  early  in  the  night, 
The  yeoman  cavalry  gave  me  a  fright ; 
The  yeoman  cavalry  was  my  downfall 
And  taken  was  I  by  Lord  Cornwall. 

'Twas  in  the  guard-house  where  I  was  laid 
And  in  a  parlour  where  I  was  tried  ; 
My  sentence  passed  and  my  courage  low 
When  to  Dungannon  I  was  forced  to  go. 

As  I  was  passing  by  my  father's  door, 
My  brother  William  stood  at  the  door  ; 
My  aged  father  stood  at  the  door, 
And  my  tender  mother  her  hair  she  tore. 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    MODE.  205 

As  I  was  walking  up  Wexford  Street 
My  own  first  cousin  I  chanced  to  meet : 
My  own  first  cousin  did  me  betray, 
And  for  one  bare  guinea  swore  my  life  away. 

My  sister  Mary  heard  the  express, 

She  ran  upstairs  in  her  mourning- dress — 

Five  hundred  guineas  I  will  lay  down, 

To  see  my  brother  through  Wexford  Town. 

As  I  was  walking  up  Wexford  Hill, 
Who  could  blame  me  to  cry  my  fill  ? 
I  looked  behind  and  I  looked  before, 
But  my  tender  mother  I  shall  ne'er  see  more. 

As  I  was  mounted  on  the  platform  high, 

My  aged  father  was  standing  by  ; 

My  aged  father  did  me  deny, 

And  the  name  he  gave  me  was  the  Croppy  Boy. 

It  was  in  Dungannon  this  young  man  died, 
And  in  Dungannon  his  body  lies  ; 
And  you  good  Christians  that  do  pass  by 
Just  drop  a  tear  for  the  Croppy  Boy. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE    STREAMS    OF    BUNCLODY. 

Oh,  was  I  at  the  moss-house  where  the  birds  do  increase, 
At  the  foot  of  Mount  Leinster  or  some  silent  place 
Near  the  streams  of  Bunclody,  where  all  pleasures  do 

meet, 
And  all  I'd  require  is  one  kiss  from  you,  sweet. 


206  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

If  I  was  in  Bunclody  I  would  think  myself  at  home, 
'Tis  there  I  would  have  a  sweetheart,  but  here  I  have 

none. 

Drinking  strong  liquor  in  the  height  of  my  cheer — 
Here's  a  health  to  Bunclody  and  the  lass  I  love  dear. 

The  cuckoo  is  a  pretty  bird,  it  sings  as  it  flies, 

It  brings  us  good  tidings  and  tells  us  no  lies, 

It  sucks  the  young  bird's  eggs  to  make  its  voice  clear, 

And  it  never  cries  cuckoo  till  the  summer  is  near. 

If  I  was  a  clerk  and  could  write  a  good  hand, 
I  would  write  to  my  true  love  that  she  might  understand, 
I  am  a  young  fellow  that  is  wounded  in  love, 
That  lived  by  Bunclody,  but  now  must  remove. 

If  I  was  a  lark  and  had  wings,  I  then  could  fly, 
I  would  go  to  yon  arbour  where  my  love  she  doth  lie, 
I'd  proceed  to  yon  arbour  where  my  love  does  lie, 
And  on  her  fond  bosom  contented  I  would  die. 

The  reason  my  love  slights  me,  as  you  may  understand, 
Because  she  has  a  freehold,  and  I  have  no  land, 
She  has  a  great  store  of  riches  and  a  large  sum  of  gold, 
And  everything  fitting  a  house  to  uphold. 

So  adieu,  my  dear  father,  adieu,  my  dear  mother, 
Farewell  to  my  sister,  farewell  to  my  brother  ; 
I'm  going  to  America,  my  fortune  for  to  try  ; 
When  I  think  upon  Bunclody,  I'm  ready  for  to  die  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    MODE.  207 

THE    GROVES    OF    BLARNEY. 

The  groves  of  Blarney  they  look  so  charming, 

Down  by  the  purling  of  sweet,  silent  streams, 

Being  banked  with  posies  that  spontaneous  grow  there, 

Planted  in  order  by  the  sweet  rock  close. 

'Tis  there's  the  daisy  and  the  sweet  carnation, 

The  blooming  pink  and  the  rose  so  fair, 

The  daffadowndilly,  likewise  the  lily, 

All  flowers  that  scent  the  sweet,  fragrant  air. 

'Tis  Lady  JefTers  that  owns  this  station ; 
Like  Alexander,  or  Queen  Helen  fair, 
There's  no  commander  in  all  the  nation, 
For  emulation,  can  with  her  compare. 
Such  walls  surround  her,  that  no  nine-pounder 
Could  dare  to  plunder  her  place  of  strength  ; 
But  Oliver  Cromwell  her  he  did  pommel, 
And  made  a  breach  in  her  battlement. 

There's   gravel   walks   there   for   speculation 

And  conversation  in  sweet  solitude. 

'Tis  there  the  lover  may  hear  the  dove,  or 

The  gentle  plover  in  the  afternoon  ; 

And  if  a  lady  would  be  so  engaging 

As  to  walk  alone  in  those  shady  bowers, 

'Tis   there   the   courtier   he   may   transport   her 

Into  some  fort,  or  all  under  ground. 

For  'tis  there's  a  cave  where  no  daylight  enters, 
But  cats  and  badgers  are  for  ever  bred  ; 
Being  mossed  by  nature,  that  makes  it  sweeter 
Than  a  coach-and-six  or  a  feather  bed. 


208  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

Tis  there  the  lake  is,  well  stored  with  perches, 
And  comely  eels  in  the  verdant  mud  ; 
Besides  the  leeches,  and  groves  of  beeches, 
Standing  in  order  for  to  guard  the  flood. 

There's  statues  gracing  this  noble  place  in — 
All  heathen  gods  and  nymphs  so  fair  ; 
Bold  Neptune,  Plutarch,  and  Nicodemus, 
All  standing  naked  in  the  open  air  ! 
So  now  to  finish  this  brave  narration, 
Which  my  poor  genii  could  not  entwine  ; 
But  were  I  Homer,  or  Nebuchadnezzar, 
'Tis  in  every  feature  I  would  make  it  shine. 

R.  A.  MILLIKEN. 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    MODE.  2OQ 


ORIGINAL    POEMS. 


AT    THE    MID    HOUR    OF    NIGHT. 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly 
To  the  lone  vale  we  loved,  when  life  shone  warm  in  thine 

eye; 
And  I  think  oft,  if  spirits  can  steal  from  the  regions 

of  air, 
To  revisit  past  scenes  of  delight,  thou  wilt  come  to 

me  there, 
And  tell  me  our  love  is  remembered,   even  in  the   sky. 

Then  I  sing  the  wild  song  it  once  was  rapture  to  hear 
When  our  voices,  commingling,  breathed  like  one  on 

the  ear  ; 
And  as  Echo  far  off  through  the  vale  my  sad  orison 

rolls, 
I  think,  O  my  love  !   'tis  thy  voice  from  the  Kingdom 

of  Souls, 
Faintly  answering  still  the  notes  that  once  were  so  dear. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


210  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

THE    STARLING    LAKE. 

My  sorrow  that  I  am  not  by  the  little  dun 

By  the  lake  of  the  starlings  at  Rosses  under  the  hill, 

And  the  larks  there,  singing  over  the  fields  of  dew, 

Or  evening  there  and  the  sedges  still. 

For  plain  I  see  now  the  length  of  the  yellow  sand, 

And  Lissadell  far  off  and  its  leafy  ways, 

And  the  holy  mountain  whose  mighty  heart 

Gathers  into  it  all  the  coloured  days. 

My  sorrow  that  I  am  not  by  the  little  dun 
By  the  lake  of  the  starlings  at  evening  when  all  is  still, 
And  still  in  whispering  sedges  the  herons  stand. 
'Tis  there  I  would  nestle  at  rest  till  the  quivering  moon 
Uprose  in  the  golden  quiet  over  the  hill. 

SEUMAS  O' SULLIVAN. 


THE  IRISH  PEASANT  TO  HIS  MISTRESS 

Through  grief  and  through  danger  thy  smile  hath  cheered 

my  way, 
Till  hope  seemed  to  bud  from  each  thorn  that  round  me 

lay; 

The  darker  our  fortune,  the  brighter  our  pure  love  burned, 
Till  shame  into  glory,  till  fear  into  zeal  was  turned. 
Oh  !    slave  that  I  was,  in  thy  arms  my  spirit  felt  free, 
And  blessed  e'en  the  sorrows  that  made  me  more  dear  to 

thee. 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    MODE.  211 

Thy  rival  was  honoured,  while  thou  wert  wronged  and 

scorned  ; 

Thy  crown  was  of  briars,  while  gold  her  brows  adorned  ; 
She  wooed  me  to  temples,  while  thou  layst  hid  in  caves  ; 
Her  friends  were  all  masters,  while  thine,  alas  !  were 

slaves  ; 

Yet  cold  in  the  earth  at  thy  feet  I'd  rather  be 
Than  wed  what  I  loved  not,  or  turn  one  thought  from 

thee. 

They  slander  thee  sorely  who  say  thy  vows  are  frail ; 
Hadst  thou  been  a  false  one,  thy  cheek  had  looked  less 

pale; 
They  say,  too,  so  long  thou  hast  worn  those   lingering 

chains, 
That  deep  in  thy  heart  they  have  printed  their  servile 

stains, — 
Oh  !    do  not  believe  them,  no  chain  could  that  soul 

subdue : 
Where  shineth  thy  spirit,  there  liberty  shineth  too. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


A    VISION    OF    CONNAUGHT    IN    THE 
THIRTEENTH    CENTURY. 

I  walked  entranced 

Through  a  land  of  Morn  : 
The  sun,  with  wondrous  excess  of  light, 
Shone  down  and  glanced 

Over  seas  of  corn 
And  lustrous  gardens  aleft  and  right. 


212  LITERATURE  IN  IRELAND. 

Even  in  the  clime 

Of  resplendent  Spain, 
Beams  no  such  sun  upon  such  a  land  ; 
But  it  was  the  time, 

'Twas  in  the  reign, 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand. 

Anon  stood  nigh 

By  my  side  a  man 
Of  princely  aspect  and  port  sublime 
Him  queried  I — 

"  O,  my  Lord  and  Khan, 
What  clime  is  this,  and  what  golden  time  ?  " 
When  he— "The  clime 
Is  a  clime  to  praise, 

The  clime  is  Erin's,  the  green  and  bland  ; 
And  it  is  the  time, 

These  be  the  days, 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand  !  " 

Then  saw  I  thrones 
And  circling  fires, 

And  a  Dome  rose  near  me,  as  by  a  spell, 
Whence  flowed  the  tones 

Of  silver  lyres, 

And  many  voices  in  wreathed  swell ; 
And  their  thrilling  chime 

Fell  on  mine  ears 

As  the  heavenly  hymn  of  an  angel-band — 
"  It  is  now  the  time 

These  be  the  years, 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand  1  " 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    MODE.  213 

I  sought  the  hall, 

And,  behold  ! — a  change 
From  light  to  darkness,  from  joy  to  woe  ! 
King,  nobles,  all, 

Looked  aghast  and  strange  ; 
The  minstrel-group  sate  in  dumbest  show  ! 
Had  some  great  crime 

Wrought  this  dread  amaze, 
This  terror  ?    None  seemed  to  understand 
'Twas  then  the  time, 

We  were  in  the  days, 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand. 

I  again  walked  forth  ; 

But  lo  !   the  sky 

Showed  fleckt  with  blood,  and  an  alien  sun 
Glared  from  the  north, 

And  there  stood  on  high, 
Amid  his  shorn  beams,  a  skeleton  ! 
It  was  by  the  stream 

Of  the  castled  Maine, 
One  Autumn  eve,  in  the  Teuton's  land, 
That  I   dreamed  this  dream 

Of  the  time  and  reign 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand  ! 

JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 


214  LITERATURE   IN 'IRELAND. 


YOUR   FEAR. 

I  try  to  blame 

When  from  your  eyes  the  battle-flame 
Leaps — when  cleaves  my  speech  the  spear 
For  fear  lest  I  should  speak  your  name. 

Your  name,  that's  known 
But  to  your  heart,  you  fear  has  flown 
To  mine — You've  heard  not  any  bird, 
No  wings  have  stirred  save  yours  alone. 

Alone  your  wings 

Have  fluttered  :  half-forgotten  things 
Come  crowding  home  into  your  heart, 
Filling  your  heart  with  other  Springs  : 

Springs  when  you've  sung 
Your  secret  name  with  happy  tongue 
Loudly  and  innocent  as  the  flowers 
Through  hours  of  laughter  proudly  young. 

Young  is  the  year 
And  other  wings  are  waking  :    near 
Your  heart  my  name  is  knocking  loud — 
Ah,  be  not  proud  !     You  need  not  fear. 

Fearing  lest  I 

Should  wrest  your  secret  from  on  high 
You  will  not  listen  to  my  name — 
I  cannot  blame  you  though  I  try. 

JOSEPH  PLUNKETT. 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    MODE.  215 

THE  FAIRY  THORN. 

AN  ULSTER  BALLAD. 

"  Get  up,  our  Anna  dear,  from  the  weary  spinning-wheel ; 

For  your  father's  on  the  hill,  and  your  mother  is  asleep  : 
Come  up  above  the  crags,  and  we'll  dance  a  Highland 
reel 

Around  the  Fairy  Thorn  on  the  steep." 

At  Anna  Grace's  door  'twas  thus  the  maidens  cried, 
Three  merry  maidens  fair  in  kirtles  of  the  green  ; 

And  Anna  laid  the  rock  and  the  weary  wheel  aside, 
The  fairest  of  the  four,  I  ween. 

They're  glancing  through  the  glimmer  of  the  quiet  eve, 
Away  in  milky  wavings  of  neck  and  ankle  bare  ; 

The  heavy-sliding  stream  in  its  sleepy  song  they  leave, 
And  the  crags,  in  the  ghostly  air. 

And  linking  hand-in-hand,  and  singing  as  they  go, 
The  maids  along  the  hill-side  have  ta'en  their  fearless 

way, 
Till  they  come  to  where  the  rowan  trees  in  lonely  beauty 

grow 
Beside  the  Fairy  Hawthorn  grey. 

The  Hawthorn  stands  between  the  ashes  tall  and  slim, 
Like  matron  with  her  twin  grand-daughters  at  her 
knee  ; 

The  rowan  berries  cluster  o'er  her  low  head  grey  and  dim 
In  ruddy  kisses  sweet  to  see. 


21 6  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 

The  merry  maidens  four  have  ranged  them  in  a  row, 
Between  each  lovely  couple  a  stately  rowan  stem, 

And  away  in  mazes  wavy,  like  skimming  birds  they  go: 
Oh,  never  carolled  bird  like  them  ! 

But  solemn  is  the  silence  of  the  silvery  haze 
That  drinks  away  their  voices  in  echoless  repose, 

And  dreamily  the  evening  has  stilled  the  haunted  braes, 
And  dreamier  the  gloaming  grows. 

And  sinking  one  by  one,  like  lark-notes  from  the  sky, 
When  the  falcon's  shadow  saileth  across  the  open  shaw, 

Are  hushed  the  maidens'  voices,  as  cowering  down  they 

lie 
In  the  flutter  of  their  sudden  awe. 

For,  from  the  air  above  and  the  grassy  ground  beneath, 
And  from  the  mountain-ashes  and  the  old  Whitethorn 

between, 
A  Power  of  faint  enchantment  doth  through  their  beings 

breathe, 
And  they  sink  down  together  on  the  green. 

They  sink  together  silent,  and  stealing  side  to  side, 
They  fling  their  lovely  arms  o'er  their  drooping  necks 
so  fair, 

Then  vainly  strive  again  their  naked  arms  to  hide, 
For  their  shrinking  necks  again  are  bare. 

Thus  clasped  and  prostrate  all,  with  their  heads  together 

bowed, 

Soft    o'er    their    bosoms'  beating — the    only    human 
sound — 


POEMS    OF    THE    IRISH    MODE.  21 7 

They  hear  the  silky  footsteps  of  the  silent  fairy  crowd, 
Like  a  river  in  the  air  gliding  round 

Nor  scream  can  any  raise,  nor  prayer  can  any  say, 
But  wild,  wild  the  terror  of  the  speechless  three— 

For   they   feel   fair   Anna   Grace   drawn   silently  away, 
By  whom  they  dare  not  look  to  see 

They  feel  their  tresses  twine  with  her  parting  locks  of 
gold, 

And  the  curls  elastic  falling,  as  her  head  withdraws  ; 
They  feel  her  sliding  arms  from  their  tranced  arms  unfold, 

But  they  dare  not  look  to  see  the  cause  ; 

For  heavy  on  their  senses  the  faint  enchantment  lies 
Through  all  that  night  of  anguish  and  perilous  amaze  ; 

And  neither  fear  nor  wonder  can  ope  their  quivering  eyes, 
Or  their  limbs  from  the  cold  ground  raise  ; 

Till  out  of  night  the  earth  has  rolled  her  dewy  side, 
With  every  haunted  mountain  and  streamy  vale  below  ; 

When,  as  the  mist  dissolves  in  the  yellow  morning  tide, 
The  maidens'  trance  dissolveth  so 

Then  fly  the  ghastly  three  as  swiftly  as  they  may, 
And  tell  their  tale  of  sorrow  to  anxious  friends  in  vain — 

They  pined  away  and  died  within  the  year  and  day, 
And  ne'er  was  Anna  Grace  seen  again. 

SAMUEL   FERGUSON. 


21 8  LITERATURE   IN   IRELAND. 


THE  LARK  IN  THE  CLEAR  AIR. 

Dear    thoughts    are    in    my    mind, 
And  my  soul  soars  enchanted, 
As  I  hear  the  sweet  lark  sing, 
In  the  clear  air  of  the  day. 
For  a  tender  beaming  smile, 
To  my  hope  has  been  granted, 
And  to-morrow  she  shall  hear, 
All  my  fond  heart  would  say. 

I  shall  tell  her  all  my  love, 
All  my  soul's  adoration, 
And  I  think  she  will  hear  me, 
And  will  not  say  me  nay. 
It  is  this  that  gives  my  soul 
All  its  joyous  elation, 
As  I  hear  the  sweet  lark  sing, 
In  the  clear  air  of  the  day. 

SAMUEL  FERGUSON, 


MAY  DAY. 

I  wish  I  were  to-day  on  the  hill  behind  the  wood,— 
My  eyes  on  the  brown  bog  there  and  the  Shannon  river,— 
Behind  the  wood  at  home,  a  quickened  solitude 
When  the  winds  from  Slieve  Bloom  set  the  branches 
there  a-quiver. 


POEMS   OF  THE   IRISH   MODE. 

The  winds  are  there  now  and  the  green  of  May 
On  every  feathery  tree-bough,  tender  on  every  hedge  : 
Over  the  bog-fields  there  larks  carol  to-day, 
And  a  cuckoo  is  mocking  them  out  of  the  woodland's 
edge. 

Hire  a  country  warmth  is  quiet  on  the  rocks 

That  alone  make  never  a  change  when  the  May  is  duly 

come  ; 

Here  sings  no  lark,  and  to-day  no  cuckoo  mocks  : 
Over  the  wide  hill  a  hawk  floats,  and  the  leaves  are  dumb. 


THE  TRIAD  OF  THINGS  NOT  DECREED. 

Happy  the  stark  bare  wood  on  the  hill  of  Bree  ! 
To  its  grey  branch,  green  of  the  May  :  song  after  sigh 
Laughter  of  wings  where  the  wind  went  with  a  cry 
My  sorrow  !     Song  after  sigh  comes  not  to  me 

Happy  the  dry  wide  pastures  by  Ahenree  ! 
To  them,  in  the  speckled  twilight,  dew  after  drouth  : 
White  clover,  a  fragrance  in  the  dumb  beast's  mouth. 
My  sorrow  !     Dew  after  drouth  comes  not  to  me. 

Happy  Oilean  Acla  in  the  ample  sea  ! 
To  its  yellow  shore,  long-billowed  flood  after  ebb  : 
Flash  of  the  fish,  silver  in  the  sloak  weeds'  web. 
My   sorrow !     Flood   after   ebb   comes   not   to   me. 

ALICE  FURLONG. 


NOTES. 


Page  2.  The  Triads  of  Ireland  :  A  collection  of  wise  sayings 
made  at  the  end  of  the  ninth  century.  Examples :  Three 
candles  that  illume  every  darkness  :  truth,  nature,  knowledge. 
Three  rude  ones  of  the  world :  a  youngster  mocking  an  old 
man,  a  robust  person  mocking  an  invalid,  a  wise  man  mocking 
a  fool.  The  Triads  have  been  edited  and  translated  by  Kuno 
Meyer  in  the  Todd  Lecture  Series  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy, 
vol.  xiii.  (Hodges,  Figgis  &  Co.,  Dublin.) 

Page  6.  La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci.  In  the  Life  and 
Letters  of  John  Keats,  Lord  Houghton  tells  how  the  sheets  on 
which  Keats  had  written  his  Ode  to  a  Nightingale  were  thrust 
away  by  the  author,  "  as  waste  paper,  behind  some  books," 
and  the  difficulty  that  his  friend  Brown  had  in  putting  together 
and  arranging  the  stanzas  of  the  ode.  Among  "  other  poems 
as  literally  '  fugitive/  rescued  in  much  the  same  way,"  he 
gives  "  a  ballad  of  much  grace  and  tenderness,  and  expressive 
of  the  feelings  that  were  then  growing  fast  within  him."  It  is 
La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci,  the  same  version,  with  "  knight-at- 
arms,"  not  "  wretched  wight,"  which  Keats  quotes  with  such 
humorous  notes  in  his  letter  of  28th  April,  1819,  to  George 
and  Georgiana  Keats.  Leigh  Hunt  in  the  Indicator,  May, 
1820,  published  the  "  wretched  wight  "  version,  which,  though 
probably  the  revised  second  version,  is  judged  inferior  by  most 
critics. 

Page  7.  "  To  us  as  to  the  ancient  Irish,  the  half -said 
thing  is  dearest."  See  Kuno  Meyer's  Ancient  Irish  Poetry  : 
Introduction,  and  Study  VIII  of  this  volume. 

Page  10.  "  Certainly  I  must  confesse  my  own  barbarousnes, 
I  never  heard  the  olde  song  of  Percy  and  Duglas,  that  I  found 
not  my  heart  mooved  more  than  with  a  Tnimpet :  and  yet 
it  is  sung  but  by  some  blinde  Crouder,  with  no  rougher  voyce, 
then  rude  stile  :  which  being  so  evill  aparrelled  in  the  dust  and 


222  NOTES. 

cobwebbes  of  that  uncivill  age,  what  would  it  worke  trymmed 
in  the  gorgeous  eloquence  of  Pindar  ?  " — Sir  Philip  Sidney : 
An  Apologie  for  Poetrie. 

For  two  essays  by  Addison  on  Popular  Poetry  :  The  Ballad 
of  Chevy  Chase,  see  Spectator,  Nos.  70  and  74. 

Page  ii.  Examples  of  the  absolute  construction  with 
"  and  "  are  found  as  early  as  Chaucer  : 

"  What  couthe  a  stourdy  housebonde  more  devyse, 
To  prove  hir  wyfhode  and  her  stedfastnesse, 
And  he  contynuyng  ever  in  stourdynesse." 

Clerkes  Tale,  iv.  91. 

There  is  another  example  in  the  same  Tale  at  vi.  109. 

Page  14.  Quotation  from  Poetry.  I  use  here  and  elsewhere 
what  I  find  well  said  for  my  purpose,  even  when  the  thing 
is  not  daringly  original. 

Page  17. 

"  A  terrible  and  splendid  trust 

Heartens   the   host   of   Innisfail :" 
first  lines  of  a  poem  by  Lionel  Johnson. 

"  The  heritage  to  the  race  of  kings :" 
first  line  of  Mr.  Joseph  Plunkett's  poem  Our  Heritage. 

"  I   saw  thee   arise 

With  the  lure  of  God  in  thine  eyes :" 
from  Banba,  by  Thomas  Boyd. 

Poetry  of  Irish  Opposition  and  Revolt  is  Chapter  12,  Volume 
iv  of  Brandes'  Main  Currents. 

Eamonn  an  Chnuic,  Druimfhionn  Donn  Dilis  and  most 
of  the  other  Irish  and  Anglo-Irish  poems  referred  to  in  the 
text  will  be  found  in  translation  or  in  the  original  (English) 
among  the  Poems  of  the  Irish  Mode  at  the  end  of  the  book. 

Page  19.  The  greater  works  of  St.  John  of  the  Cross  are 
The  Ascent  of  Mount  Carmel,  The  Obscure  Night  of  the  Soul, 
A  Spiritual  Canticle  between  the  Soul  and  Christ,  The  Living 
Flame  of  Love.  These  consist  of  mystical  poems  with  explanations. 
He  has  left  besides  seventeen  poems  without  commentary. 

Page  23.  "  The  life  and  ways  of  the  Gael."  The  Gael 
largely  assimilated  the  old  Danes  and  the  Normans,  who 
became  ipsis  Hibernis  Hiberniores. 


NOTES  223 

Page  25.  "  Certain  Irishmen  .  .  .  expressed  English 
or  European  life."  These  are  here  regarded  altogether  from 
the  Gaelic  standpoint.  From  the  English  point  of  view  they 
seem  to  form  a  strong  group,  typical  and  expressive  of  Irish 
dissent  and  divergence.  The  term  "  Hiberno-English," 
recently  coming  into  use,  might  be  applied  to  these  to  distin- 
guish them  from  those  whose  immediate  inspiration  is  Irish. 

Among  the  Hiberno-English  writers  represented  in  the  first 
volume  of  the  Cabinet  of  Irish  Literature  are  Sir  John  Denham, 
Richard  Flecknoe,  Wentworth  Dillon  Earl  of  Roscommon, 
George  Farquahar,  Thomas  Parnell,  William  Congreve.  In 
the  same  work  will  be  found  accounts  of  some  of  the  Irish 
writers  who  remained  at  home  in  body  only. 

Page  26.  "  George  Barley's  reference  to  Irish  history,  his 
use  of  clan  names."  For  instance,  in  The  Flight  of  the  Forlorn  : 
A  Romantic  Ballad  Founded  on  the  History  of  Ireland,  he 
has  "  Shan-avon  "  for  Shannon,  "  Hi-dallan  "  as  the  name  of 
an  individual,  and  stanzas  like  this,  full  of  errors : 

"  Clan  Tir-oen  !     Clan  Tir-conel ! 

Atha's   royal  sept  of   Connacht ! 
Desmond  red  !    and  dark  O'Donel ! 

Fierce  O'More  !  and  stout  Mac  Donacht !  " 

"  Curran's  Irish  phrases."     One  of  his  best  known  poems  has 
these  lines  : 

"  Thou  gem  of  the  west,  the  world's  cushla  ma  chree  !  " 

"  Thy  friendship  is  seen  in  the  moment  of  danger 
And  the  wanderer  is  welcomed  with  cushla  ma  chree." 

Cuisle  mo  chroidhe  means  "  pulse  of  my  heart."  Curran's 
lines  are  nonsensical.  He  must  have  known  some  Irish,  but 
he  probably  regarded  it  as  fair  game  for  any  use. 

William  Drennan's  poems.  Compare,  for  instance,  the  first 
stanzas  of  his  two  best  known  poems  :  When  Eire  first  Rose 
from  the  Dark-swelling  Flood  and  the  Wake  of  William  Orr. 
Nothing  in  Anglo-Irish  verse  surpasses  the  solemn  simplicity 
of  the  second-named : 

"  Write  his  merits  on  your  mind — 
Morals  pure  and  manners  kind ; 
In  his  head  as  on  a  hill 
Virtue  placed  her  citadel. 


224  NOTES. 

Why    cut  off  in  palmy  youth  ? 
Truth  he  spoke,  and  acted  truth — 
'  Countrymen,  unite  !  '  he  cried, 
And  died — for  what  his  Saviour  died. 

God  of  Peace  and  God  of  Love, 
Let  it  not  Thy  vengeance  move  ! 
Let  it  not  Thy  lightnings  draw — 
A  Nation  guillotined  by  law  ! 

Here  we  watch  our  brother's  sleep ; 
Watch  with  us,  but  do  not  weep ; 
Watch  with  us  through  dead  of  night, 
But  expect  the   morning  light." 

Page  27.  Charles  MacLaughlin,  who  changed  his  name 
to  Macklin,  was  born  in  1690  and  died  in  1797.  He  became 
one  of  the  greatest  of  English  actors.  He  returned  to  Ireland 
on  more  than  one  occasion,  but  finally  died  in  England,  where 
he  had  played  at  Drury  Lane  chiefly,  up  to  almost  his  hun- 
dredth year.  "  This  was  the  Jew  that  Shakespeare  drew,"  in 
Shylock.  The  plays  of  his  that  seem  to  us  of  most  interest 
are  the  True- Born  Scotchman  and  Love  a  la  Mode.  The  Theatre 
of  Ireland  revived  some  years  ago  The  Irish  Fine  Lady,  under 
the  title  of  The  True-born  Irishman. 

Page  28.  English  as  We  Speak  it  in  Ireland  is  the  title  of  an 
interesting  book  by  the  late  Doctor  P.  W.  Joyce. 

Page  33-  For  Carleton's  letter  from  London  see  Mr.  D.  J. 
O'Donoghue's  Introduction  to  The  Black  Prophet  (Laurence 
and  Bullen). 

Page  34.  "  The  function  of  the  conventional  word-order." 
In  English,  since  the  decay  of  inflexions,  word-order  has  the 
function  of  making  clear  the  meaning.  In  Old  English  the  order 
of  words  was  nearly  as  free  as  that  of  Latin.  (See  Leon  Kellner : 
Historical  Outlines  of  English  Syntax  §  480.)  But  yet  modern 
diction  is  not  the  only  possible  or  the  best.  "  Modern  syntax, 
fettered  by  logic,  is  artificial,  the  result  of  literary  tradition,  and 
therefore  far  from  being  a  true  mirror  of  what  is  going  on 
in  the  mind."  (Ibid  §  9.).  Tennyson's  line,  "  Flashed  all  their 
sabres  bare,"  follows  the  right  order  and  is  better  than  "  All 
their  bare  sabres  flashed."  Naturalness  is,  of  course,  another 


NOTES  22$ 

matter,  and  my  remarks  here  are  no  contradiction  to  what  I 
say  at  page  139  and  elsewhere  in  this  volume. 

Page  40.  The  stock  example  of  Alfred's  style  is  his  Preface 
to  the  West  Saxon  version  of  the  Cura  Pastoralis  of  Gregory 
the  Great.  It  will  be  found  in  most  Anglo-Saxon  Readers 
(for  instance  in  Sweet's),  in  some  anthologies  of  English  Prose 
and  in  such  books  as  Kellner's  English  Syntax,  cited  elsewhere 
in  these  Notes  and  recommended  here  for  reference  in  connec- 
tion with  the  development  of  syntax.  An  interesting  book 
more  easily  accessible  (Kellner,  has  been  out  of  print  for  some 
time)  is  Sweet's  Temple  Primer  :  The  History  of  Language. 

Most  books  on  the  growth  and  structure  of  the  English 
Language  give  many  examples  of  words  that  have  come  in 
from  history  and  of  the  puns  and  the  blunders  that  have  been 
ennobled — words  like  "  nap,"  the  card-game,  from  Napoleon's 
way  of  war,  "  tory  "  and  "  boycott  "  from  Irish  ways  of 
war.  "  Derring-do,"  a  noun,  is  Spenser's  misinterpretation 
of  Chaucer's  verb  in  the  line  "  In  dorrying  don  that  longeth 
to  a  knyght."  (In  daring  to  do  what  belongeth  to  a  knight.) 
In  looking  at  a  dictionary  now  for  confirmation  of  this  reference 
I  find,  before  "  derring-do  "  :  "  derrick,  n.  contrivance  for 
moving  or  hoisting  heavy  weights  ....  (obs.  senses, 
hangman,  gallows,  from  name  of  hangman  c.  1600)."  After 
"  derring-do  "  comes  "  derringer,  n.  small-bore  pistol  (U.S. 
inventor's  name)." 

Page  43.  A  few  additional  examples  :  He  went  into  fits  of 
laughter  for  He  laughed  loudly.  What's  on  you  ?  They  are 
after  killing  the  little  dog  on  me,  (for  my  little  dog}.  I  was  not 
going  in  under  the  table,  and  if  I  was  itself,  hadn't  I  the  floor 
swept  ?  These  forms  are  all  used  in  Anglo-Irish. 

Page  50.  See  W.  B.  Yeats'  Poems  (1912  edition) :  Glossary 
and  Notes. 

Page  51.  In  gin  Ni  Murachu.  The  correct  Irish  form  would 
be  Inghean  Ui  Mhurchadha.  If  Mr.  Stephens  spelled  it  Inyan 
ee  Vurachu,  he  would  have  been  near  the  right.  Inghin  is  the 
dative  or  prepositional  case  of  Inghean  (daughter).  "  Ni,  in- 
declinable, used  in  O  surnames  of  females  .  .  .  it  is  an 
abbreviation  of  Ni  Ui  (from  Inghean  Ui}."  (Dineen's  Dic- 
tionary). Murachu  (Murchadha)  has  not  its  initial  consonant 
aspirated  as  it  should  have,  The  cases  in  the  correct  Irish 

9 


226  NOTES. 

form   are,   nominative,   genitive,  genitive :    Daughter  of  the 
descendant  (grandson)  of  Murchadh,  Daughter  of  O'Murrough. 

Page  53-  I  have  written  on  the  metre  of  Ernest  Dowson's 
poem  in  Thomas  Campion  and  the  Art  of  English  Poetry. 

Page  60.  Lionel  Johnson.  Writing  as  I  am  of  literature 
rather  than  of  poets,  I  have  not  been  able  to  do  honour  due 
to  some  Irish  writers  who  go  without  that  honour.  Lionel 
Johnson  was  a  great  poet,  different  from  the  others  of 
greatest  name  in  this  book,  but  not  surpassed  in  his  art 
by  any.  His  lyrics  are  deliberate,  builded,  balanced,  sonorous, 
full  of  dignity,  but  not  the  less  spontaneous,  not  the  less  the 
creatures  of  a  passionate  art  than  those  of  fine  careless  rapture, 
not  the  less  winged  for  other  rapture  and  eyed  for  vision  and 
for  tears.  To  know  fine  poetry,  read  his  long  poem  Ireland. 
I  take  a  stanza  at  random : 

"  Nay  !    we  insult  thee  not  with  tears,  although 
With  thee  we  sorrow  :    not  as  for  one  dead 
We  mourn  for  one  in  the  cold  earth  laid  low. 
Still  is  the  crown  upon  thy  sovereign  head, 
Still  is  the  sceptre  within  thy  strong  hand, 

Still  is  the  kingdom  thine  : 
The  armies  of  thy  sons  on  thy  command 
Wait,   and  thy  starry  eyes  through  darkness  shine. 
Tears  for  the  dear  and  dead  !     For  thee,  A II  hail ! 

Unconquered  Inisf  ail ! 
Tears  for  the  lost :    thou  livest,  O  divine  !  " 

Read  a  poem  on  a  subject  that  has  been  a  net  of  poor  prose 
to  many  poets,  Ninety-Eight : 

"  Who  fears  to  speak   of  Ninety-Eight? 
He,  who  despairs  of  Ireland  still : 
Whose  paltry  soul  finds  nothing  great 
In  honest  failure  :    he,  whose  will 
Feeble  and  faint  in  days  of  gloom, 
Takes  old  defeat  for  final  doom. 

Who  fears   to  speak   of  Ninety-Eight? 
The  renegade  who  sells  his  trust : 
Whose  love  has  rottened  into  hate 
Whose    hopes    have    withered    into    dust : 
He  who  denies,   and  deems  it  mad, 
The  faith  his  nobler  boyhood  had." 


NOTES.  227 

Page  61.  Mr.  Clement  Shorter  is  set  down  with  the  "  men 
of  law  by  a  mistake,  which  I  regret.  His  edition  of  Emily 
Bronte's  Complete  Poems  (1910)  contains  one  hundred  and 
thirty -eight  new  pieces,  including  the  poem  I  quote.  Except 
that  three  stanzas  which  seem  incongruous  are  printed  with  it, 
no  fault  can  be  found  with  his  editing  of  this,  or,  to  my 
knowledge,  of  the  others. 

Page  62.  Padraic  O  Prunta,  spelled  Padruig  ua  Pronntuidh 
in  a  MSS.  volume  in  Irish  written  by  him  in  1763,  now  in  the 
possession  of  Douglas  Hyde.  See  The  Brontes  by  Clement 
Shorter,  vol.  i.,  p.  23. 

Page  63.  For  a  popular  account  of  the  work  of  O' Donovan, 
O' Curry  and  Petrie,  see  A  Group  of  Nation  Builders  by  Rev. 
P.  M.  MacSweeney,  M.A.,  Professor  of  English  at  Maynooth 
College,  published  by  the  Catholic  Truth  Society  of  Ireland. 

Pages  64  et  seq.  On  quantitive  and  accentual  verse  and 
other  technical  matters  the  author  has  written  fully  in  his 
book  on  English  prosody :  Thomas  Campion  and  the  Art  of 
English  Poetry. 

Page  65.  Accent  and  Rhythm  explained  by  the  Law  of  Mono- 
pressure,  published  anonymously  in  1888. 

Page  69.     In  an  admirable  passage  of  the  Introduction  to 
his  Selection  of  Spenser's  Poems  (The  Golden  Poet's  Series  : 
Jack)  Mr.  Yeats  has  shown  the  difference  between  the  "  march- 
ing rhythms,  that  once  delighted  more  than  expedient  hearts  " 
and  the  varied  and  troubled  rhythms  of  a  poetry  that  has 
"  learned  ecstasy  from  Smart  in  his  mad  cell,  and  from  Blake, 
who  made  joyous  little  songs  out  of  almost  unintelligible  visions, 
and  from  Keats,  who  sang  of  a  beauty  so  wholly  preoccupied 
with  itself  that  its  contemplation  is  a  kind  of  lingering  trance." 
He  takes  as  example  of  this  vaguely  suggestive  poetry  a  stanza 
of  Shelley's  Laon  and  Cynthia,  which  is  in  the  Spenserian  stanza; 
and  shows  that  the  lines  which  are  in  Spenser  like  bars  of  gold 
thrown  ringing  one  upon  another,  are  in  Shelley's  poem  broken 
capriciously.     Spenser's   verse   rushes,    as   he   says,    to   some 
preordained  thought  with  that  marching  rhythm ;  in  Shelley's 
"  the  meaning  is  an  inspiration  of  the  indolent  muses,  for  it 
wanders    hither    and    thither    at   the   beckoning   of  fancy." 
Rhythms  do  express  emotions,  and  mingled  rhythms  express 
mingled  emotions,  in  verse  as  in  music- 


228  NOTES 

Page  72.  Deibhidhe  is  one  of  the  forms  of  Irish  dan  direach 
or  straight  verse.  For  a  sample  see  text  page  78.  It  is  impos- 
sible here  to  explain  the  technicalities  of  the  dan  direach. 
Students  are  referred  to  Meyer's  Primer  of  Irish  Metrics. 

"  The  ancient  pitch."  That  even  the  Romans  marked 
pitch  in  their  copies  of  poems  is  known  from  the  fact  that  in  the 
earliest  codex  of  Virgil's  works,  a  manuscript  of  the  fourth 
century,  in  the  lyaurentian  Library  at  Florence,  are  neumes 
as  guides  to  the  reciter.  Neumes,  derived  from  the  Greek 
accents,  were  used  to  represent  the  degrees  of  the  scale. 

Page  76.  Having  quoted  so  much  of  O'Hussey's  Ode  here 
I  omit  the  poem  from  the  Poems  of  the  Irish  Mode  at  the  end  of 
the  book,  though  it  is  one  of  the  finest  examples  of  the  Mode. 

Page  77.  I  do  not  know  that  I  should  call  the  inversion 
"  candles  three  "  a  forced  phrase.  It  is  entirely  justified  and 
it  is  not  at  all  of  the  same  order  as  : 

"  What  will  ye  more  of  your  guest  and  sometime  friend  ?  " 

At  all  events,  in  the  matter  of  word-order  poetry  has  other 
rights.     See  page  34,  and  note  thereon. 

Page  79.  My  keeping  of  the  incorrect  spellings  of  Irish  words 
in  the  titles  of  poems,  Lene  for  Lein,  Pastheen  for  Pdistin,  must 
seem  inconsistent  with  my  claim  for  justice  to  Irish.  I  do 
not,  however,  feel  myself  justified  in  altering  an  author's  con- 
stant spelling  of  a  title,  though  I  am  willing  to  correct  his 
spelling  of  Irish  words  which  have  not  assumed  pseudo-English 
forms. 

Page  81.  "  Three  things  through  love  I  see."  From  a 
translation  of  an  Irish  poem,  Taid  na  realta  'na  seasamh  ar 
an  aer. 

Page  83.     See  note  to  page  72,  Deibhidhe. 

Page  96.  "  The  Old  Days  of  '  Unknowing  '  in  the  fourteenth 
century."  The  fourteenth  century  is  one  of  the  golden 
ages  of  Mysticism.  In  England  it  produced  The  Cloud  of 
Unknowing  and  other  profound  works.  So  well  were  mystical 
works  appreciated  at  the  time  that  when  a  translation  (Dionise 
Hid  Divinite]  of  a  work  of  Dionysius  the  Areopagite,  was  made, 
probably  by  the  same  author  as  The  Cloud  of  Unknowing,  it 
"  ran  across  England  like  deere."  See  Appendix  to  Mysticism 
by  Evelyn  Underbill  (Methuen).  For  a  discussion  of  the 
language  of  the  mystics,  see  the  same  work.  "  No  direct 


NOTES.  229 

description  of  spiritual  experience  is  or  can  be  possible  to 
man.  It  must  always  be  symbolic,  allusive,  oblique  :  always 
suggest,  but  never  tell,  the  truth."  This  itself  suggests,  but 
does  not  tell,  the  truth.  That  the  words  of  a  living  language 
may  have  double  use  is  certain.  "  In  Chinese  poetry,"  says 
Ernest  Fellonosa,  "  every  character  has  at  least  two  shades 
of  meaning,  its  natural  and  its  spiritual, — or  the  image  and  its 
metaphorical  range."  (Epochs  of  Chinese  and  Japanese  Art.} 

Page  98.  The  passage  by  I^ord  Dunsany  is  from  The  Gods 
of  Pegana. 

Page  100  (footnote).  Coventry  Patmore  to  Francis  Thomp- 
son. See  Kverard  Meynell's  Life  of  Francis  Thompson,  page 
221.  Patmore  learned  his  lesson  from  Father  Gerard  Hopkins, 
himself  a  rare  and  to  some  of  us  an  exquisite  poet.  He  sent  the 
priest  his  book  of  mystical  poems,  Sponsa  Dei,  in  manuscript, 
and  on  receiving  it  back  with  the  simple  comment  "  This  is 
telling  secrets,"  burnt  it.  This  I  have  from  Father  George 
O'Neill,  S.J.,  M.A.,  Professor  of  Bnglish  Language  at 
University  College,  Dublin,  who  knew  Father  Hopkins  here, 
and  still  has  some  unpublished  music  composed  by  him. 
Patmore  has  a  single  poem  (published)  entitled  Sponsa  Dei. 

Page  1 02.  Ronsard.  The  reference,  of  course,  is  to  the 
famous  Sonnets  pour  Helene. 

Page  103.  A  translation  of  "  that  untranslateable  Eamonn 
an  Chnuic  "  will  be  found  on  page  197.  Judging  from  the  at- 
tempts of  Mangan  and  others,  and  from  my  own  failure  before 
to  make  anything  like  an  adequate  version,  I  wrote  this  sen- 
tence in  the  text.  Since,  in  making  my  selection  of  Poems 
of  the  Irish  Mode,  I  have,  I  hope,  disproved  it.  As  in  the 
case  of  Is  Truagh  gan  Mise  i  Sasana,  page  150,  I  have  omitted 
stanzas  which  I  believe  to  be  mere  accretions  to  the  true  poem. 

Page  105.  Urbanitas,  curiosa  felicitas,  ego  poster  a  crescam 
iaude  recens,  "  marvellous  boy,"  "  sleepless  soul."  "  Criticism 
disdains  to  chase  a  school  boy  to  his  common  places."  Doctor 
Johnson  :  Life  of  the  English  Poets  :  Thomas  Gray. 

Page  1 08.  Dr.  Sigerson  :  See  Introduction  Bards  of  the  Gael 
and  Gall. 

Page  in.  John  Kglinton.  In  his  book  of  literary  criticism 
Pebbles  from  a  Brook  (published  at  Kilkenny  by  Standish 


230  NOTES. 

O'Grady  in  1901)  and  in  the  earlier  Literary  Ideals  in  Ireland 
(Daily  Express  Office,  Dublin,  and  Fisher  Unwin,  London, 
1899)  to  which  he  contributed  with  W.  B.  Yeats,  £$  and  the 
late  William  Larminie,  readers  will  find  (if  they  can  find  the 
books)  interesting  discussions  of  many  of  my  subjects.  It  is 
a  pity  that  John  Eglinton  has  not  collected  his  critical  studies. 

Page  113.  "  The  Golden  Age  of  Irish  Civilization."  Ireland 
was  then  indeed  an  island  of  Saints  and  Scholars.  The  Science 
of  the  Saints  was  known  and  revered  as  it  never  has  been 
since  in  any  whole  nation. 

Page  114.  Duanaire  Finn  is  the  1908  volume  of  the  Irish 
Texts  Society. 

The  Ulidian  Cycle  includes  the  great  Tain  Bo  Cuailnge  with 
its  attendant  tales,  among  them  the  Deirdre  Saga  (Oidhe 
Chloinne  Uisnigh  :  The  Fate  of  the  Sons  of  Uisnech).  The 
Fenian  Cycle  is  that  of  Finn  and  the  Fiana  (generally  now 
spelt  Fianna)  of  the  great  poet  Oisin  (son  of  Finn  and  father  of 
Oscar),  of  Diarmuid  Donn  and  Grainne. 

Page  118.  The  Standish  O'Grady  referred  to  is  Standish 
James,  author  of  The  Bardic  History  of  Ireland,  The  Coming 
of  Cuculain  and  other  romantic  retellings  of  Irish  story, 
not  Standish  Hayes,  of  the  Silva  Gadelica  and  of  the  Catalogue  of 
the  Irish  MSS.  in  the  British  Museum,  the  most  wonderful 
catalogue  ever  made,  being  a  great  work  in  itself.  Standish 
Hayes  edited  his  first  Irish  text,  The  Pursuit  of  Diarmuid  and 
Grainne  in  1855,  and  died  the  i8th  October,  1915,  two  days 
before  I  wrote  these  words.  Standish  James  still  walks  the 
earth.  I  saw  him  do  it  this  morning.  "  Years  ago,"  wrote 
^  in  the  United  Irishman,  discussing  a  statement  of  O'Grady's 
in  his  All  Ireland  Review,  "  years  ago,  in  the  adventurous  youth 
of  his  mind,  Standish  O'Grady  found  the  Gaelic  tradition  like 
an  antiquated  dun  with  the  doors  barred.  Listening,  he  heard 
from  within  the  hum  of  an  immense  chivalry,  and  he  opened 
the  doors  and  the  wild  riders  went  forth  to  work  their  will  .  .  . 
The  wild  riders  have  gone  forth,  and  their  labours  in  the  human 
mind  are  only  beginning.  They  will  do  their  deeds  over  again, 
and  now  they  will  act  through  many  men  and  speak  through 
many  voices." 

Page  123.  Matthew  Arnold's  "  touchstones  "  will  be  found 
in  the  General  Introduction  to  The  English  Poets,  edited  by 
T.  H.  Ward  (first  published  1880).  The  Introduction  is  re- 


NOTES.  23! 

published  as  the  first  of  Essays  in  Criticism,  second  series  (The 
Study  of  Poetry). 

I  sing  of  a  maiden  :  "  makeless,"  matchless  ;  "  ches,  '  chose  ; 
"  al  so,"  as. 

Page  124.  For  the  utterly  uninitiated  (these  notes  in 
general  are  for  the  uninitiated)  I  must  explain  that  An  Craoibhin 
Aoibhin  is  the  poet  name  of  Douglas  Hyde.  It  means  The 
Pleasant  Little  Branch. 

Page  126.  Domfarcai.  This  little  poem  was  discovered 
on  the  margin  of  one  of  the  ancient  manuscripts  of  St.  Gall  by 
Cavaliere  Nigra.  "  While  translating  these  verses,"  wrote  the 
discoverer,  "  I  love  to  imagine  the  poor  monk  who,  more  than 
a  thousand  years  ago,  was  copying  the  manuscript  and,  taken 
off  for  a  moment  by  the  song  of  the  blackbird,  saw  through  the 
casement  of  his  cell  the  green  crown  of  woods  which  surrounded 
his  monastery  in  Ulster  or  in  Connacht;  and  having  heard 
the  quick  trilling  of  the  bird,  he  wrote  these  verses  and  returned 
more  lightly  to  his  interrupted  labours."  See  Bards  of  the 
Gael  and  Gall,  Introduction. 

Page  132.  Many  modern  writers  have  attempted  verse 
translations  of  the  lament,  the  best  that  I  know  is  a  fragment 
of  eight  lines  quoted  in  an  interesting  little  pamphlet  A  Talk 
about  Irish  Literature  by  An  Gae  Bolga  (Dublin  :  Gill,  1907)  : 

"  Ebb-tide  to  me, 

For  with  the  ebbing  sea  my  life  runs  out, 
Old  age  has  caught  and  compassed  me  about, 
I  mourn  the  glad  youth  passed  away  from  me. 

The  flood-wave  thine, 

Mine  but  the  swift  back-flowing  ebb-tide's  call. 

Out  of  my  hand  the  ebb-tide  carries  all, 

Towards  thee  the  flood-wave  foams  across  the  strand." 

Page  134.  Atkinson:  On  Irish  Metric  (Dublin:  Ponsonby, 
1884.) 

Page  139.  Comparisons  like  those  I  institute  between  the 
diction  of  Wordsworth  and  of  the  Anglo-Irish  poets  are  generally 
unfair,  as  being  of  unlikes.  Mine  is  not  so  ;  the  poems  compared 
are  similar  in  situation. 

Page  1 43 .  The  lovely  harp  in  the  Fenian  lay  had  three  strings, 
a  string  of  silver,  a  string  of  bright  brass,  and  a  string  of  iron 


232  NOTES. 

whole.  The  names  of  the  strings  were  Geantarghlcas,  Goltar- 
ghleas,  Suantarghleas,  the  string  of  laughter,  the  string  of 
sorrow,  the  string  of  slumber.  Padraic  MacPiarais  has  two  of 
these  strings  to  his  harp.  For  an  account  of  the  three  see 
Duanaire  Finn  xvii. 

Page  153.  This  same  passage  from  Seadna  is  translated 
in  A  Talk  about  Irish  Literature  referred  to  in  a  previous  note. 

Page  164.  Father  Dineen  in  his  edition  of  Koghan  Ruadh 
acknowledges  that  the  poem  has  been  attributed  to  Maire  Ni 
Sheadha,  but  holds  that  the  style  is  clearly  Koghan  Ruadh's. 
The  poem  is  Maidean  fhuar  fhliuc  ag  eighre  suas  dam. 

Page  170.  The  Aisling  describes  a  vision  of  Ireland.  "  A 
popular  air,"  says  Father  Dineen,  "  was  seized  upon  and  wed- 
ded to  a  poetic  vision  of  Krin  as  a  virgin  endowed  with  every 
grace  of  mind  and  with  all  loveliness,  who  appears  to  the  poet 
and  enthralls  him  with  her  beauty.  The  vision  takes  place 
either  as  he  lies  in  bed,  weary  and  oppressed,  or  as  he  saunters 
by  some  lonely  river  in  melancholy  mood,  sorrowing  over  his 
country's  ills.  The  poet,  lost  in  wonderment  at  the  queenly 
figure,  reverently  inquires  of  the  virgin  who  she  is,  whether 
she  is  a  human  being  or  a  goddess,  whether  Helen  or  Diana, 
or  Deirdre  or  Cearnait,  or  the  lady  who  brought  over  the 
Normans  to  our  shores.  The  queen  replies  that  she  is  none  of 
these,  but  the  spouse  of  the  banished  Stuart.  Then  she  recounts 
her  woes  .  .  .  There  is  the  inevitable  announcement  of 
a  speedy  deliverance."  No  fewer  than  eighteen  of  the  forty- 
four  poems  of  Koghan  Ruadh  collected  by  Father  Dineen 
are  aislingi,  and  the  proportion  in  the  work  of  others  is  as 
great.  L,ike  the  Klizabethan  sonnet  in  Kngland,  of  which 
many  thousands  were  published  between  Sidney  and  Shake- 
speare, the  Irish  aisling  became  a  craze. 

Dan  direach  :  See  note  to  page  72. 

"  Schoolmen  of  condensed  speech  "  is  a  mistranslation  of 
a  line  in  the  Lament  for  the  Bardic  Schools  by  the  great  poet 
O'Gnive  written  in  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
The  two  words  at  the  end  of  the  first  line  of  : 

Ni  clos  sgoluidhe,  sgeal  tinn, 

D'Uibh  nDalaigh  na  d'Uibh  nUiginn. 

were  taken  to  be  sgeil  teinn ;  so  instead  of  "  There  are  not 
(heard)  scholars,  a  sore  tale !  of  the  O'Dalys  or  of  the 


NOTES.  233 

O'Higgins  ",  it  was  read  "  There  are  no  schoolmen    of  con- 
densed speech,  etc." 

Page  177.  The  list  of  poets  here  is  not,  of  course,  intended 
to  be  complete,  but  some  omissions  and  the  inclusion  of  some 
of  those  mentioned  may  seem  strange,  even  in  view  of  the 
limitations  I  have  set.  I  shall  deal  with  a  few  typical  cases. 
Dr.  John  Todhunter  (born  1839),  an  admirable  poet,  has 
written  some  poems  of  this  mode.  Aghadoe  is  in  most  of  the 
anthologies : 

("  I   walked   to   Mallow   town  from  Aghadoe,  Aghadoe, 
Brought  his  head  from  the  gaol's  gate  to  Aghadoe, 
Then  I  covered  him  with  fern,  and  I  piled  on  him  the 

cairn. 
I4ke  an  Irish  king  he  sleeps  in  Aghadoe.") 

Yet,  living,  as  he  has  been,  out  of  Ireland  for  many  years, 
he  is  unknown  to  the  present  generation,  as  an  influence  nothing 
like  Dr.  Sigerson,  for  instance,  even  though  he  too  has  trans- 
lated many  of  the  ancient  Irish  poems. 

T.  W.  Rolleston  who  has  done  much  Irish  work,  I  include 
principally  for  the  value  of  his  beautiful  version  of  O'Gillan's 
poem  The  Dead  at  Clonmacnois  : 

— ("  In  a  quiet  water'd  land,  a  land  of  roses, 

Stands  Saint  Kieran's  city  fair ; 
And  the  warriors  of  Erin  in  their  famous  generations 
Slumber  there. 

Many  and  many  a  son  of  Conn  the  Hundred-Fighter 

In  the  red  earth  lies  at  rest ; 
Many  a  blue  eye  of  Clan  Colman  the  turf  covers 

Many  a  swan- white  breast.") 

Thomas  Boyd,  of  whom  we  have  heard  nothing  since  the 
publication  of  his  Poems  in  1906  (Dublin :  Gill),  seems  to  me 
a  poet  sure  to  return  and  attain  power.  The  twenty-five 
poems  collected  and  published  by  Mr.  O'Donoghue  in  the 
volume  mentioned  are  all  Irish,  though  of  many  modes.  No 
one  can  read  the  Leanan  Sidhe  or  An  Donn  Cuailgne  without 
seeing  a  poet  in  them  ;  and  they  are  not  better  than  others  in 
the  book. 

The  work  of  Ethna  Carbery  is  not  as  fine  as  that  of  Thomas 
Boyd,  though  some  of  her  historical  ballads  will  live : 


234  NOTES. 

("  I  am  Brian  Boy  Magee — 
My  father  was  Eoghan  Ban — 

I  was  wakened  from  happy  dreams 
By  the  shouts  of  my  startled  clan ; 

And  I  saw  through  the  leaping  glare 
That  marked  where  our  homestead  stood 

My  mother  swing  by  her  hair 
And  my  brothers  lie  in  their  blood     .     .     .") 

It  is  not  of  the  Irish  Mode,  at  all  events ;  it  is  ended  (more's 
the  pity),  and  it  has  not  shed  seeds.  So  with  the  work 
of  others  of  whom  I  have  made  no  mention  in  the  text,  It  is 
not  a  glory  of  this  Mode  now  and  it  does  not  seem  to  me  destined 
for  a  better  fortune.  It  is  possible,  of  course,  that  I  may  have 
forgotten  some  writer  of  real  power.  Throughout  I  have 
had  to  depend  mostly  on  my  own  reading  and  memory. 
No  literary  movement  of  equal  importance  has  received  so 
little  notice  from  critics  and  historians,  though  the  elder  writers 
of  the  present  time  have  had  a  world-wide  vogue  for  years 
now. 

Page  178.  Poems  of  the  Irish  Mode.  The  great  majority 
of  these  poems  are  songs  with  very  beautiful  old  Irish  airs. 
Almost  all  the  Translations  are  so,  and  of  course  all  the  Ballads. 
I  should  print  with  the  Translations  the  original  Irish  poems, 
but  that  I  think  it  well  to  send  students  of  Irish  to  the  original 
sources.  To  print  them  for  others  would  be  useless.  If  any 
readers  of  these  versions  are  prompted  to  begin  their  study  of 
Irish  by  a  study  of  these  originals,  I  would  refer  them  to  the 
six  penny  booklets,  Ceol  Sidhe,  published  by  the  Irish  Book 
Company,  Dublin.  Mangan's  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Munster 
(Duffy)  and  Edward  Walsh's  Irish  Popular  Songs  (Gill)  give 
Irish  and  English  on  opposite  pages. 

Page  182.  Pasth een  Finn.  An  Paistin  Fionn  means  the 
fair  haired  child,  not  brown  girl  sweet.  Ferguson  takes  other 
liberties  with  his  original,  but  in  general  reproduces  the  rhythm 
and  effect  of  the  song  excellently. 

Page  1 86.  The  unsigned  poems  and  verse  translations 
here  and  through  the  book  are  the  author's  own. 

Pearl  of  the  White  Breast  is  perhaps  the  least  satisfactory 
translation  used  here,  as  it  does  not  turn  into  beautiful  poetry, 
and  as  it  needs  to  a  degree  its  air  to  set  it  in  this  mode  ;  yet 
as  it  is  a  faithful  version,  and  by  Petrie,  I  have  let  it  stand. 


NOTES.  235 

Page  187.  Flavell's  name  is  written  also  Lavelle.  George 
Fox  was  an  early  friend  of  Ferguson's.  He  left  Ireland  and 
was  lost  sight  of  by  the  poet,  who  long  after,  in  1880,  dedicated 
his  poems  to  him.  Lady  Ferguson,  in  her  Life  of  her  husband 
says  that  Ferguson  was  the  writer  of  this  translation, 
but  that  as  it  had  been  attributed  to  Fox,  who  had  helped 
him  with  it,  he  refused  later  to  claim  it.  All  editors  respect 
Ferguson's  generosity  with  their  right  hands,  but  add  a  note 
like  this  with  their  left.  The  original  reads  to  one  like  a  poor 
translation  into  unidiomatic  Irish.  But  it  is  in  Hardiman's 
book,  published  in  1831,  long  before  this  version  appeared,  so 
it  must  be  all  right.  Such  wrong  may  a  poet  suffer  at  the 
hands  of  a  translator  ! 

Page  192.  In  a  note  to  his  edition  of  Mangan's  Poems,  Mr. 
D.  J.  O'Donoghue,  generally  most  accurate  of  commentators, 
says  that  A  Farewell  to  Patrick  Sarsfield  only  distantly  resembles 
the  original.  Except  that  it  is  not  a  complete  translation, 
omitting  some  stanzas,  it  is  wonderfully  close  to  the  Irish  poem. 
Students  can  compare  the  version  with  the  original  in  The 
Poets  and  Poetry  of  Munster  (Dublin  :  Duffy). 

Page  196.  "  William  Heffernan,  more  usually  called  Uilliam 
Dall  or  Blind  William,  a  native  of  Shronehill  in  Co.  Tipperary, 
was  born  blind,  and  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life,  a  poor 
houseless  wanderer,  subsisting  upon  the  bounty  of  others." 
(Edward  Walsh).  He  lived  in  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  His  poems  have  never  been  collected. 

Pages  197  and  198.  Eamonn  an  Chnuic  and  Druimfhionn 
Donn  Dilis  are  both  in  the  form  of  dialogue,  the  former  between 
Ireland  and  the  Rapparee  (though  with  its  long  tail  of  verses 
it  assumed  the  form  of  an  ordinary  love  poem),  the  latter 
between  the  Stuart  and  Ireland,  the  white-backed,  brown, 
true,  silk  of  the  kine. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  assonance  of  final  syllables  in  the 
original  (cnuic,  flinch)  is  represented  in  the  translation  by 
rime,  assonance  of  penultimates  (deanach,  gaolta)  by  assonance. 

Page  199.  Mr.  J.  H.  Lloyd,  who  discovered  and  published 
An  Bunan  Buidhe  (The  Yellow  Bittern),  has  told  me  that  he 
suppressed  some  inferior  stanzas.  These  I  have  never  known. 
Mr.  Lloyd  wrote  of  Cathal  Buidhe  in  Irisleabhar  na  Gaedhilge 
on  more  than  one  occasion,  and  in  his  book,  Duanaire  na  Midhe. 
The  poem,  the  song  of  a  drinker,  is  certainly  symbolical.  I 


236  NOTES. 

have  authority  for  my  translation  of  Hallai  Chuinn  by  "  Con- 
stantine's  halls." 

Page  200.  The  Song  of  Gladness.  The  vision  of  the  bees 
seems  wonderful  in  the  work  of  a  poet  blind  from  birth,  till  we 
find  that  Heffernan  barely  mentions  a  swarm  without  a  chief, 
the  rest  being  Mangan's.  Critics  who  would  reduce  the  themes 
of  lyric  poetry  to  a  small  number,  and  find  them  appearing 
independently  in  many  languages  might  find  interesting  parallels 
to  the  last  stanzas  of  this  poem.  As  Mr.  D.  J.  O'Donoghue  has 
pointed  out,  Fanny  Parnell's  fine  poem  After  Death  practically 
repeats  it.  Bdward  Walsh  has  translated  this,  as  most  of  the 
other  poems  done  also  by  Mangan  and  Ferguson.  His  versions 
are  more  literal  but  in  general  inferior.  He  gives  the  original 
in  his  Irish  Popular  Songs. 

Page  203.  Shule  Aroon.  I  have  kept  the  title  used  in  the 
broad-sheets  and  in  all  editions  of  this  street  song ;  but  have 
spelled  correctly  the  Irish  refrain.  The  translation  is : 

"  Walk,  walk,  walk,  my  (secret)  love  ! 
Walk,  so  quiet,  and  walk  so  soft, 
Walk   to   the   door   and   elope   with   me, — 
And  may  you  go  safe,  my  darling  !  " 

An  Craoibhin  Aoibhin  (Douglas  Hyde)  has  an  Irish  version 
of  this  song  which  some  day  may  be  translated  into  English 
verse  of  the  Irish  Mode  and  so  send  this,  like  the  Irish  heroes 
in  £$'s  phrase,  to  do  its  deeds  again  and  speak  through  many 
voices.  To  start  it,  I  translate  in  prose  the  first  verse  of  Dr. 
Hyde's  version : 

"  O  pleasant,  handsome,  youthful  boy  ! 
Wide  was  your  heart,  sweet  was  your  kiss. 
I  wish  that  I  were  yours  for  life, — 
And  may  you  go  safe,  my  darling  ! 

Walk,  walk,  walk,  my  love  ! 

There's  no  cure  to  get  but  the  cure  of  death. 

Since  you  have  left  me,  poor  is  my  case — 

And  may  you  go  safe,  my  darling  !  " 

Page  204.  The  Croppy  Boy.  This  is  one  of  several  versions 
of  this  famous  ballad.  It  is  chosen  by  me  as  being  more 
interesting  metrically  than  the  others.  The  variant  nearest  to 
it,  used  by  Padraic  Colum  in  his  Broad-sheet  Ballads  (Dublin  : 


NOTES.  237 

Maunsel)  has  obviously  been  worked  over.  The  second  line 
becomes  : 

"  When  the  small  birds  tune  and  the  thrushes  sing," 
The  second  stanza : 

"  It  was  early,  early,  on  Tuesday  night 
When  the  yeoman  cavalry  gave  me  a  fright, 
To  my  misfortune  and  sad  downfall 
I  was  taken  prisoner  by  Lord  Cornwall." 

On  the  other  hand  I  am  sorry  to  miss  the  two  stanzas  that 
take  the  place  of  the  second  last  of  this  version  : 

"  I  choose  the  black  and  I  choose  the  blue, 
I  forsook  the  red  and  orange  too, 
I  did  forsake  them  and  did  them  deny, 
And  I'll  wear  the  green  like  a  Croppy  Boy. 

Farewell,  father,  and  mother  too, 

And  sister  Mary,  I  have  none  but  you  ; 

And  for  my  brother,  he's  all  alone, 

He's  pointing  pikes  on  the  grinding  stone." 

Of  course  Carroll  Malone's  version  is  practically  a  different 
poem.  Though  it  is  now  more  commonly  sung,  it  is  full  of 
absurdities  :  "a  vested  priest,"  "  Nomine  Dei,  the  youth 
begins,"  and  then  the  whole  confession.  Perhaps  its  preference 
is  due  to  the  two  fine  lines  : 

"  I  bear  no  hate  against  living  thing, 
But  I  love  my  country  above  my  king." 

Page  205.  The  Librarian  of  University  College,  Dublin, 
Mr.  D.  J.  O'Doiioghue,  referred  to  frequently  above,  who 
knows  more  about  Anglo-Irish  literary  history  and  publications 
than  anyone  else,  has  told  me  that  this  version  of  The  Streams 
of  Bunclody  is  a  redaction  by  Halliday  Sparling,  editor  of  Irish 
Minstrelsy  (Canterbury  Poets  Series)  made  from  several 
variants.  Readers  will  acknowledge  that  it  has  been  well 
made.  The  lovely  precision  of  "  proceed,"  three  stanzas 
from  the  end,  and  the  wistful  rambling  of  the  closing  line, 
might  have  been  spoiled  by  a  hand  less  true. 

Page  208.  I  defy  the  malediction  of  Sam  Lover  against 
editors  who  omit  the  stanza  added  to  The  Groves  of  Blarney  by 
Father  Prout.  Readers  who  are  afraid  to  share  my  fate  and 


238  NOTES. 

think  it  their  duty  to  read  it,  will  find  it  in  Front's  Reliques, 
or  in  any  of  the  collections  of  the  timid  editors. 

Page  209.  Original  Poems.  I  have  to  thank  Alice  Furlong, 
Seumas  O 'Sullivan  and  Joseph  Plunkett  for  permission  to  use 
poems  of  theirs  which  they  were  able  to  give  me  without  asking 
the  permission  of  publishers.  I  decided  when  making  this 
selection  not  to  ask  for  copyright  poems.  Now  that  I  am 
come  to  the  end  of  my  work,  I  am  half  tempted  to  regret  not 
having  broken  my  rule  in  some  instances  in  order  to  secure 
other  good  poems  which  would  introduce  to  my  readers  other 
authors  with  whose  work  I  could  not  deal  here.  Again  one 
instance  must  suffice  for  all.  Dora  Sigerson  Shorter  has 
written  some  of  the  best  modern  ballads,  poems  very  dis- 
tinctively Irish.  Her  work  has  a  breath  of  romance  all  its 
own,  that  "  breath  of  flowers  "  that  she  feared  to  leave 
behind  in  Ireland.  Beautiful  lyrics  of  hers,  such  as  Ireland 
and  Can  Doov  Deelish,  may  be  read  in  the  anthologies.  I 
should  like  to  have  printed  these  and  others.  I  comfort 
myself  with  the  thought  that  my  book  may  send  some  to  her 
Complete  Poems,  where  they  will  find  them  in  a  better  atmos- 
phere, as  to  the  works  of  other  good  poets  barely  mentioned 
in  this  book.  The  published  works  of  most  of  the  Anglo-Irish 
poets  of  the  time  are  within  easy  reach  of  everyone. 

Page  210.  The  Irish  Peasant  to  his  Mistress  is  addressed  to 
the  Irish  Catholic  Church  which  suffered  under  the  penal  laws, 
not  yet  quite  removed,  persecution  unparalleled. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 


In  the  text  and  in  notes  I  have  named  many  books,  recom- 
mending some  and  censuring  others.  I  can  give  here  only 
a  general  guidance  to  readers  for  whom  these  Studies  are  an 
introduction  to  the  literatures  with  which  I  deal.  Books  of 
reference  in  the  subject  are  few,  and,  by  comparison  with 
those  of  other  literatures,  unsatisfactory.  This  study  is  still 
too  new  to  have  its  histories  and  its  appreciations  complete. 
As  there  is  really  no  knowing  Anglo-Irish  without  some  know- 
ledge of  Irish  work,  even  at  second  hand,  I  would  recommend 
readers  to  look  into  editions  of  Irish  classics  such  as  those  of 
the  Irish  Texts  Society  (which  has  now  published  fourteen 
volumes) ;  into  the  Thesaurus  Palaeohibernicus  of  Whitiey 
Stokes  and  John  Strachan,  the  Introduction  to  the  first  volume 
and  all  the  end  of  the  second;  into  the  Silva  Gadelica  of  Standish 
Hayes  O'Grady,  and  into  numbers  or  volumes  of  Eriu  (pub- 
lished by  the  School  of  Irish  Learning,  Dublin)  Gadelica  (Hodges, 
Figgis),  Celtic  Review,  Scottish  (London :  Nutt),  Irisleabhar 
na  Gaedhilge  (The  Gaelic  Journal)  now  dead,  of  the  French 
Revue  Celtique  and  the  German  Irische  Texte  and  Zeitschrift 
fur  Celtische  Philologie.  The  Proceedings  of  the  old  Ossianic 
Society  are  now,  like  many  of  these,  hard  to  get,  and,  like  them, 
fascinating.  To  mention  editions  and  translations  of  indivi- 
dual classics,  even  of  the  Tain,  would  draw  me  aside  from 
the  main  track.  In  the  second  volume  of  The  Irish  Review 
(1912-1913),  Doctor  Osborn  Bergin  edited  for  the  first  time 
a  series  of  very  interesting  early  Modern  Irish  poems.  In 
the  first  and  third  volumes,  Mr.  P.  H.  Pearse  edited  the  begin- 
ning of  an  Irish  Anthology,  Lyric  Poems  and  Poems  of  Irish 
Rebels.  To  many  of  us  the  great  treasure-house  of  Irish 
poetry  is  still  James  Hardiman's  Irish  Minstrelsy  in  two 
volumes  (published  1831).  It  is  rivalled  in  our  days  by  Douglas 
Hyde's  Love  Songs  of  Connacht  and  Religious  Songs  of  Con- 
nacht.  Doctor  Sigerson's  Bards  of  the  Gael  and  the  Gall  (Unwin) 
and  Eleanor  Hull's  Poem  Book  of  the  Gael  (Chatto  and  Windus) 

230 


240  BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

do  not  give  the  originals  like  the  others,  but  refer  readers  to 
the  sources,  as  does  Kuno  Meyer's  Ancient  Irish  Poetry  (Con- 
stable) a  book  of  prose  versions.  Latterly,  of  course,  there 
has  been  a  constant  stream  of  editions  of  Gaelic  Poetry  and 
Prose,  known  to  all  students. 

The  histories  of  Gaelic  Literature  are  Douglas  Hyde's  large 
Literary  History  of  Ireland  and  small  Story  of  Early  Gaelic 
Literature  (Unwin)  and  Eleanor  Hull's  Text  Book  of  Irish 
Literature  in  two  volumes  (Gill).  They  have  to  be  read  with 
caution. 

Of  Anglo-Irish  Anthologies  I  have  written  at  some  length 
in  the  text.  The  Introductions  to  the  Brooke-Rolleston 
Treasury  of  Irish  Poetry  (1890)  and  to  W.  B.  Yeats'  Book  of 
Irish  Verse  (1895)  an(l  the  notes  on  the  life  and  work  of  the 
poets  in  the  former  work,  are  good.  Anthologies  not  mentioned 
in  the  text  are  the  first  of  all.  Charlotte  Brooke's  Irish  Poetry 
(1789)  and  Halliday  Sparling's  useful  little  Irish  Minstrelsy 
(Scott :  Canterbury  Poets). 

Doctor  P.  W.  Joyce's  English  as  we  Speak  it  in  Ireland  is 
published  by  Messrs.  Gill,  Dublin.  Professor  Mary  Hayden  and 
Professor  Marcus  Hartog  contributed  to  the  Fortnightly  Review, 
April  and  May,  1909,  a  study,  The  Irish  Dialect  of  English. 
For  an  interesting  list  of  books  on  the  subject  see  Maurice 
Bourgeois'  John  Millington  Synge  and  the  Irish  Theatre,  pages 
223  and  224,  footnote. 

It  is  impossible  here  to  add  much  to  what  has  been  written 
in  Study  V  by  way  of  guidance  to  Anglo-Irish  prose.  The 
works  of  the  authors  there  mentioned  form  the  main  bulk  of 
the  literature  that  is  fixed.  In  our  days  we  have  had  a  con- 
siderable dramatic  literature,  written  by  Edward  Martyn, 
W.  B.  Yeats,  J.  M.  Synge,  Padraic  Colum,  Lady  Gregory  and 
by  a  host  of  other  authors  who  cannot  yet  be  definitely  placed. 
Their  works  are  published  mostly  by  Messrs.  Maunsel,  Dublin. 
We  have  had  a  great  body  of  stories,  sketches  and  essays. 
Most  of  the  poets  are  also  writers  of  prose.  The  most  char- 
acteristically Anglo-Irish  are  Douglas  Hyde  again,  Padraic 
Colum  again,  whose  uncollected  short  stories  are  better  than 
anything  of  their  kind  that  I  know,  William  Boyle,  Emily 
Lawless,  Lady  Hartley  (May  Laffan),  Jane  Barlow,  Seamus 
MacManus,  Miriam  Alexander,  Shan  Bullock  and  William 
Buckley.  James  Stephens  has  attained  a  very  great  con- 
temporary reputation  and  deserves  it.  The  early  works  of  the 
late  Canon  Sheehan  are  among  the  best  Anglo-Irish  novels. 
W.  B.  Yeats  is  as  great  a  master  of  prose  as  of  verse  and 


BIBLIOGRAPHY.  24! 

distinctively  Irish,  too,  though  his  work,  in  the  main  critical 
and  philosophic,  is  far  apart  from  that  of  all  the  others  men- 
tioned here.  His  Complete  Works  are  published  by  A.  H. 
Bullen,  Stratford-on-Avon. 

All  the  poets  that  matter  I  hope  I  have  mentioned  in  the 
text  or  in  notes.  A  few  of  some  fame  I  have  omitted  because 
I  do  not  think  their  work  good.  The  principal  Dublin  pub- 
lishers of  verse  are  Maunsel  and  Hodges,  Figgis  and  Co. 
The  catalogues  of  these  houses  contain  lists  of  the  authors 
and  their  works. 

The  best  encyclopaedias  of  the  subject  are  The  Cabinet  of  Irish 
Literature,  in  four  volumes  (Gresham  Publishing  Company), 
which  can  easily  be  got,  and  the  far  finer  but  rare  Irish  Litera- 
ture, in  ten  volumes  (Philadelphia  :  John  D.  Morris  Company  : 
1904).  In  Every  Irishman's  Library  the  Talbot  Press  (Dublin) 
is  issuing  a  series  of  anthologies  of  verse  and  prose  and 
editions  of  masterpieces  of  Anglo-Irish  literature.  For  the 
rest,  go  to  the  compilations  and  editions  of  D.  J.  O'Donoghue : 
The  Poets  of  Ireland  (Hodges,  Figgis),  his  Life  and  complete 
edition  of  Mangan,  his  complete  works  of  Lover,  his  editions 
of  some  works  of  Carleton.  Father  S.  J.  Brown  has  just  pub- 
lished a  large  book  of  reference,  Ireland  in  Fiction,  an  exten- 
sion of  his  Reader's  Guide  to  Irish  Fiction.  He  has  also  made 
a  Guide  to  Books  on  Ireland.  To  end  with  what  I  began 
and  therewith  to  assuage  the  learned  who  have  forgotten  that 
this  Bibliography  is  not  for  them,  I  give  the  name  of  the 
great  list  of  Gaelic  books  :  Bibliography  of  Irish  Philology 
and  of  Printed  Irish  Literature,  made  by  R.  I.  Best  and  pub- 
lished by  the  National  Library  of  Ireland. 


INDEX. 


This  Index  does  not  repeat  the  directions  of  the  Table  of  Contents  : 
it  does  not  give  references  to  the  Poems  of  the  Irish  Mode.  It  gives 
references  to  Notes  only  when  new  names  and  new  matter  are  inlro*. 
duced  in  these.  Otherwise,  references  will  be  taken  to  include  notes. 
It  does  not  cover  the  Bibliography. 


Abbey  Theatre,  163. 

Absolute  Construction  with  And, 

ii. 

A.C.H.   of  Poetry,   14. 
Addison,   10. 
J£,    177,   230. 

Affliction  of  Margaret,    The,    34. 
A  is  ling,    170. 
A    Leabhrahain,  gabh  amach  fa'n 

saoghal,   167. 
Alfred,  King,  40. 
Allingham,    William,    60. 
American  Literature,    142. 
A  Mhuire  na  nGras,  124. 
Ancient     Irish    Literature,     104 

et  seq. 

Ancient   Irish   Poetry,    107,    126. 
Andersen,    Hans,    121. 
An  Droighnean  Donn,  174. 
Anglo-Irish  (The  Term),  28. 
Anglo-Irish   Authors,    59   et   seq. 
Anglo-Irish  Dialect,    n,    12,   28, 

35,  4i.  48. 
Anglo-Irish  Literature  (essentials) 

21  et  seq.,  58. 

An   Naonih   ar   larraidh,    157. 
Anthologies,    89    et   seq.,    176. 
An  Tinceir  agus  an  t  Sidheog,  157. 
Arnold  Matthew,  2,  55,  117,  123, 

140,  167. 

Arthurian  Epics,  50,   107. 
Atkinson,  Professor  Robert,  134. 
Austen,  Jane,  n. 
Authority,    5,    8,    9. 
Authors,   Anglo-Irish,   59  et  seq. 
Authors,     Hiberno-English,     25, 

27.  59,  223. 


Bacon,  Francis,  35. 
Ballads,  Irish  Street,  26. 
Ballad   Literature,    10. 
Banims,  The,  62. 
Beaudelaire,  Charles,  45. 
Benson,  A.  C.,  61. 
Bergin,  Osborn,   136. 
Best,    R.    I.,    136. 
Bible,  The,  10. 

Blackbird  of  Daricarn,  The,  172. 
Blake,   William,    3,    35,    41. 
Book  of  Irish  Verse,  A,  89. 
Boyd,   Thomas,   177,   222,   233. 
Brandes,  George,   17. 
Bridges,    Robert,    75. 
Bronte,    Charlotte,    61. 
Bronte,    Emily,    60,    62. 
Brooke,  Stopford,   89,  90,  91. 
Browning,    Robert,    3,   85. 
Buile  Suibhne,   135. 
Burns,    Robert,    62,    85,    159. 
Butt,  Isaac,  62. 

Callanan,  J.  J.,  8,  53,  55,  59,  181. 
Campbell,    Joseph,    177. 
Campion,    Thomas,    53,    55,    79, 

81,  134. 

Canterbury  Tales,  30. 
Carbery,  Ethna,    233. 
Catullus,    123,    176. 
Carducci,   158. 
Carleton,   William,   33,   62. 
Carlyle,    Thomas,     169. 
Cartesian    Philosophy,    5. 
Celtic  Literature,  on  the  Study  of, 

55- 
Celtic  Note,  The,  5,  56. 


243 


244 


INDEX. 


Characteristics,    Irish,    13. 
Chaucer,    i,    22,   30,   31,   36,   37, 

41,   101,   140,   143. 
Chesson,   Nora,   28,  60. 
Chesterton,    G.    K.,    85. 
Clarity,   122. 
Classic  Renaissance,  4,  5  et  seq., 

10,  II,  35,   106  et  seq. 
Coleridge,   S.  T.,   94. 
Colloquialism,  33. 
Colum,    Padraic,    95,    102,    139, 

141,   143,   176,   236. 
Columbus,    5. 
Confessio    Amantis,    30. 
Cooke,  John,  89,  90,  91. 
Copernicus,  5. 
Cousins,  J.  H.,    177. 
Criticism    and    Literature,     117, 

138  e.t  seq.,   147. 
Curran,  John  Philpot,  26,  62. 

Dan   direach,    83,    170. 

Dante,  158,  167. 

Darley,  George,  26. 

Darwin,  5. 

Davis,   Thomas,   60,   63. 

Deirdre,  71,  in,  117. 

De  Quincey,  Thomas  (Passage 
from,  translated  into  French, 
Latin,  Irish),  45  et  seq. 

de  Vere,  Aubrey,  60,  172. 

Dinneen,  Rev.  P.  S.,  140,  232. 

Domfarcai  Jidbaidae  fal,  126,  165. 

Douglas,  Gawin,  22. 

Dowson,  Ernest,   53. 

Drama,  18,  157-165. 

Dramatic  Lyric,  The,  83  et  seq. 

Drennan,  William,  26,  73,  74. 

Druimfhionn  Donn  Dilis,    17. 

Drummond,   William,    73,    74. 

Dryden,  John,    i,   21,   22,   122. 

Duanaire  Finn,  114,  134,  135- 

Dublin  Book  of  Irish  Verse,  The, 
85,  89,  90. 

Dunbar,    William,    22. 

Dunsany,  Lord,  98,  99. 

Eamonn   an   Chnuic,    17,    103. 
Eclgeworth,    Maria,    62. 
Eglinton,  John,   in. 
Elizabethan    Literature,    6,    21 

101. 
Emrnet,    Robert,    »7,    62. 


English  Language,   40 
Eriu,  83,   136. 

Famine,    Irish,    33. 

Fellonosa.  Ernest,  229. 

Fenian  Cycle,  The,   114. 

Ferguson,  Samuel,  51,  53,  55, 
59,  60,  63,  79,  80,  81,  178, 
179,  183,  185,  190,  217,  218, 
.  235. 

Finn's  Song  of  Summer,  79. 

Fitzgerald,    Edward,    60. 

Flavell,    Thomas,    187. 

Flood,    Henry,    62. 

Folk   Literature,    18. 

Fox,  George,   188. 

French  Literature,  40,  58. 

French    Revolution,    5. 

Furlong,  Alice,  177,  219. 

Futurists,  3,  8. 

Gaedhealtacht,   152,   157-165. 
Gael  and  Greek,  29,  106. 
Gaelic  Influence,   11,   35,    108. 
Gaelicisms,    12. 
Gaelic  League,    140,    157-162. 
Gaelic    Literature,     17,    25,    38, 

104  et  seq. 
Gaelic  Renaissance,   7,    103,   105 

et  seq.,    167   et  seq. 
Gaelic    Symbolism,    17. 
Galileo,   5. 
Gilbert,    W.   S.,    49. 
Goethe,    158. 
Golden  Age  of  Irish  Civilization, 

113- 
Golden  Treasury  of  English  Songs 

and  Lyrics,   The,  85,  89. 
Goldsmith,    Oliver,    27,    59,    85. 
Gower,  John,   30. 
Grattan,   Henry,    27,   62. 
Gray,   Thomas,    159. 
Greek   and   Gael,   29,    106. 
Gregory,  Padric,  90,  91. 
Griffin,"  Gerald,  60,  62. 

Hardbeck,   Carl,    55. 
Heffernan,  William,   196,  200 
Heine,   158. 

Henley,    W.   E.     86    87 
Hiberno-English  Authors,  25,  27, 

59.  223. 
History   and   Literature,    112. 


INDEX. 


245 


History,  Irish,  37  et  seq. 

Homer,  6. 

Hopkins,  Father  Gerard,  229. 

Horace,  69,  70,  104,  105,  121,  176. 

Houghton,  Lord,  221. 

Housman,   A.   E.,    148. 

Hull,  Eleanor,  91,  117,  127. 

Hunger    and   Sex,    16. 

Hyde,  Douglas,  59,  81,  91,   100, 

in,  122,  123,  124,  134,  136, 

152,    157,   176,   236. 

I  am  Eve,  great  Adam's  Wife,  84. 
Ibsen,  18,   158. 
•  Impressionism,  7,  18. 
Individual   and    Collective,    151. 
Influence,  Gaelic,  n,  35,  108. 
Intellectualism,  6. 
Intonation,  Irish,  12,  52,  70,  72, 

.  I7I- 
Irish    and   English,    23,    24,    39, 

42  et  seq.,   136  et  seq.,   168. 
Irish  Characteristics,   13. 
Irish  Intonation,  12,  52,  70,  72, 

171. 
Irish    Language,    17,   44  et  seq., 

49- 
Irish  Mode,  4,  8,  29,  52,  56,  59, 

64  et  seq.,  79,  171-177. 
Irish  Music,   12,  23,   27,  52,  55, 

70,  79,  171. 
Irish  Prose,  152. 
Irish  Review,  The,  92. 
Irish  Street  Ballads,  26. 
Irish  Words  in  English,  49  et  seq. 
I  Sing  of  a  Maiden,   123. 
Is  truagh  gan  mise  i  Sasana,  150. 

Jacobites,   38. 

James  I.  of  Scotland,  22,  28. 

Johnson,  Lionel,  28,  60,  222,  226. 

Johnson,  Samuel,  229. 

Jonson,  Ben,  21,  22,  37,  73. 

Joyce,  P.  W.,  28. 

Joyce,   Robert  Dwyer,   174. 

Keating,  Geoffrey,  46. 
Keats,  John,  6,  9,  57,  105,  160. 
Kellner,  Leon,  224,  225. 
King  and  Hermit,   79,    129. 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci,  6. 
Lake  Isle  of  Inishfree,  The,  67. 


Lalor,    James   Fintan,   63. 
Lament  for  the  Makaris,  22. 
Lament    of   the    Old    Woman    of 

Beare,  The,  51,  79,  131  et  seq. 
Langland,  William,  31,  37. 
Language     and    Literature,    30, 

148-151. 

Language,  English,    40. 
Language,    Irish,    17,    44  et  seq., 

49-  . 

Larminie,  William,  230. 
Lawless,    Emily,    60,    177. 
Law  of  Mono-pressures,  65. 
Learning  and  Literature,  74. 
Lecky,  W.  H.,  62. 
Lefanu,  J.  Sheridan,  62. 
Les   Regrets   de   la   Belle   Heaul- 

miere,   131. 
Letts,  W.  M.,  177. 
Lever,  Charles,  62. 
Literature,    American,    142. 
Literature,    Ancient    Irish,     104 

et  seq. 
Literature    and    Criticism,     117, 

138-147. 
Literature    and    Language,    30, 

148-151. 

Literature    and    Learning,    74. 
Literature   and  Nationality,   40, 

57- 

Literature,     Anglo-Irish     (essen- 
|         tials)  21  et  seq.,  58. 
Literature,  Ballad,  10. 
Literature,  Elizabethan,  6,  21. 
Literature,  Folk,    18. 
Literature,  French,  58. 
Literature,  Gaelic,  17,  25,  38. 
Literature,  Restoration,    21. 
Literature,  Scots,   21. 
Literature,  Themes  of  Irish,  109, 

in,   117  et  seq. 
Little  Black  Rose,  The,  172. 
Lloyd,  J    H.,  235. 
Lloyd,  Seaghan,   148. 
Lover,  Samuel,  62,  237. 
Love  Songs  of  Connacht,  The,  176. 

Macalister,  R.  A.  S.,  136. 
MacDonagh,  Thomas,   177. 
MacGiolla    Ghunna,     Cathal 

Buidhe,   199. 
Mackail,  J.  W.,   176. 
Macklin,  Charles,  27,  62. 


246 


INDEX. 


MacNeill,    Eoin,    114,    134,    135, 

136. 

Macpherson,    James,   9,    35. 
MacPiarais,      Padraic      (P.      H. 

Pearse),   143  et  sea.,   152. 
MacSuibhne,   Padraig,   166. 
MacSweeney,  Rev.  P.  M.,  227. 
Main     Currents     in     Nineteenth 

Century   Literature,    17. 
Malone,  Carroll,  237. 
Mangan,  James  Clarence,  8,   59, 

60,   63,    76,    77,    80,    81,    102, 

171,  172,  175,  192,  195,  197, 

202,  213,  234. 
Mathurin,  Charles,  62. 
McBrien,   Peter,   177. 
McCall,  Patrick  J.,   177. 
Me  Eba  Ben  Adaimh  Uill,  83. 
Meredith,     George,     1 1 1 . 
Messe  ocus  Pangur  ban,  78. 
Metaphors,   100,   169. 
Meyer,  Kuno,  63,   83,   106,   107, 

126,  128,  129,  131,  134. 
Michael,   34. 
Milligan,  Alice,  60,  77. 
Millikin,  R.  A.,  208. 
Milton,  John,  i,  9,  74,  101. 
Mistral,    33,    158. 
Mitchel,   John,   62. 
Mitchell,  Susan,   177. 
Modern  Irish  Poetry,  90. 
Moli^re,    33,    163. 
Mono-pressures,     The     I/aw     of, 

65. 

Moore,  George,  158. 
Moore,  Thomas,   17,   27,   54,   55 

59,  81,  209,  211. 
Munster  Bards,  164. 
Music  and  Metre,  71,  79  et  seq. 
Music,  Irish,   12,  23,  27,  52,  55, 

70,  79,  171. 
My  dark  Rosaleen,  171. 
Mysticism,  7,  19,  96  et  seq. 

Nationality   and   Literature,   40 

57- 

Newbolt,  Henry,  75,  77. 
Newman,  Cardinal,  120. 
Night  before  Larry  was  stretched, 

The,  26. 

Obscurity,  92  et  seq. 
O'Connell,  Daniel,  39,  62. 


O'Curry,  Eugene,  49,  63,  133. 
O'Donnell,   Hugh,   38. 
O'Donoghue,     D     J.,    224,    233. 

235.  236,  237. 
O'Donovan,   John,   49,   63. 
O'Grady,    Standish    Hayes,    63, 

135.  230. 
O'Grady,    Standish    James,    63, 

118,  119,  230. 
O'Hussey's   Ode   to   the   Maguire, 

76. 

Oireachtas,  159,   161. 
O'Keeffe,  J.  G.,   135. 
O'Leary,      Peter,     Canon,      153, 

164,  165. 

Omond,  T.  S.,  65. 
O'Neill,  Eoghan  Ruadh,  38. 
O'Neill,  Father  George,  229 
O'Neill,  Hugh,  38. 
O'Neill,  Moira,  177. 
O'Pronntuidh,  Padruig,  62. 
O'Shaughnessy,  Arthur,  60,  122. 
O  Suilleabhain,    Eoghan   Ruadh, 

164. 

O'Sullivan,  Seumas,  177,  210. 
Outlaw  of  Loch  Lene,   The,   79. 
Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me,  86. 
Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse,  The, 

75- 

Pale,  The,  24,  27,  31,  158,  162. 

Palgrave,  Sir  Francis,  85,  89. 

Parnell,  Charles  Stewart,  16,  39. 

Parnell,  Fanny,  236. 

Pastheen  Finn,  79. 

Patmore,    Coventry,    80,    100. 

Patriotism,   Irish,    14,    39,    103. 

Pearse,  P.  H.  (Padraic  Mac- 
Piarais), 143  et  seq.,  152. 

Pepys'  Diary,   n. 

Petrie,   George,   63,   187. 

Philosophy,    Cartesian,    5. 

Phonetics,    13,    49. 

Plunkett,  Joseph,  92,  94,  177, 
214,  222. 

Poe,  E.  A.,  60. 

Poem  Book  of  the  Gael,  The,  91. 

Poet,  The,  32. 

Poetry,  Ancient  Irish,  107,   126. 

Poetry    (Chicago   Monthly),    14. 

Poetry     (Interpretative),     88. 

Pope,  Alexander,  2. 

Pride  and  Prejudice,  II. 


INDEX. 


247 


Printing,   17. 
Prose,  Irish,  152. 
Prout,  Father,  237. 
Prudhomme,  Sully,   122. 

Qualities     of     Irish     Literature, 
no,   120,   128. 

Raftery,    Anthony,    102,    152. 
Religious  Songs  of  Connacht,  The, 

123. 
Renaissance,  Classic,  4,  5  et  seq., 

10,  ii,  35,  106  et  seq. 
Renaissance,  Gaelic,  7,   103,   105 

et  seq.,  167  et  seq. 
Restoration   Literature,    2 1 . 
Revolution,  French,   5. 
Rhythm,    70. 

Rhythm  and  Emotion,   69. 
Rime,   133. 
Roisin  Dubh,   103. 
Rolleston,  T.  W.,  89,   177,   233. 
Romance,   6,   9,    10,    36. 
Ronsard,    102,    103. 
Ruskin,   John,    16. 

Samhain,   160, 

Scholars,  Irish,  63. 

Scots  Literature,   21. 

Seadna,   153. 

Shakespeare,  2,  3,  9,  21,  37,  41, 

48,    55,    101,    no,    122,    148, 

159,  160. 

Shelley,  P.  B.,  in. 
Sheridan,  R.  B.,  27,  59. 
Shiel,  Richard  Lalor,  62. 
Shorter,  Clement,  227. 
Shorter,  Dora  Sigerson,  177,  238. 
Sidney,   Sir  Philip,    10. 
Sigerson,    George,    59,    108,    126, 

127,  134,  136,  172,  176,  233. 
Silva  Gadelica,  135. 
Sincerity  in  Literature,   88. 
Song  from  Deirdre,  71. 
Sparling,  Halliday,  237. 
Spenser,  37. 
Standards    (critical,    literary),  2, 

19,  58,   104  et  seq.,   in,   142, 

161. 

Stephens,  James,  51,  177. 
St.  Guthlac,  71. 
St.  John  of  the  Cross,  19. 
Stokes,  Whitley,  63,  127,  135. 


Strongbow,  28. 

Suantraidhe  agus  Goltraidhe,  143 

et  seq. 

Sweet,  Henry,  225. 
Swift,   27,   59. 
Swinburne,    A.    C.,    150. 
Syllabic  Verse,   72,   78. 
Symbolism,   Gaelic,   17. 
Synge,    J.    M.,    16,    48,    49. 

T  agor e ,    R  abindr  an  ath ,    15. 
Tain   Bo   Cuailgne,    106,    135. 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  smiling  child,  61. 
Tennyson,   Alfred,   5. 
Themes  of  Irish  Literature,  The, 

109,  in,  117  et  seq. 
The  middle  of  the  things  I  know, 

97- 
Thesaurus  Palaeohibernicus,  126 

135- 

Thompson,  Francis,  94,  100,  103. 
Three    Sorrows    of    Story-telling, 

The,  in. 
Three    things    through  love  I  see, 

Si. 

Times,  The,  bi. 
'Tis  a  pity  I'm   not  in  England, 

150. 

Todhunter,  John.  233. 
Town  of  Passage,   The,  66. 
Translation,    13,   27,    100  et  seq.t 

121. 

Treasury  of  Irish  Poetry,  A.   89. 
Trench,"  Archbishop,  30. 
Triads  of  Ireland,   The,   2. 
Tryst  after  Death,  The,  129. 

Ulidian  Cycle,  The,   114  et  seq. 
Underbill    "^velyn,   228. 
University  College,  Dublin,  136. 

Verlaine    Paul,     148,     149. 
Versification,    12,    52    et  seq.,  64 
et   seq.,   127,    133,    147,    171- 

175- 

Vers  Libres,   8. 

Villon,   26,    105,    131,    1 60. 

Virgil,    1 60. 

Vision  of  Con-naught  in  the  Thir- 
teenth   Century,    A,    175. 

Wagner,  7. 
Wallace,  Colm,  152. 


248 


INDEX 


Walsh,   Edward,    59,    180,    185, 

234-  235,  236. 

Wars  of  the  Roses,  The,  37,  no 
Watson,    William,    75. 
Weldon,    Robert,    152. 
Whimsicality,    13. 
Whitman,    Walt,    3. 
Wild   Earth,    143. 
Wind  among  the  Reeds,  The,  51. 
Wolfe,  Charles,  n. 


Word-Order,  34. 

Words,   121. 

Words,     Irish,    in    English,    49 

et   seq. 
Wordsworth,     William,     9,     33, 

34,  no,  139. 

Yeats,  W.  B.,  34,  50.  5*.  59.  67, 
71,  72,  81,  89,  102,  139,  141. 
160,  176,  227. 


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